


Sister Dearest

by LilithsLullaby



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Choking, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Family Issues, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudo-Incest, Public Sex, Smut, Spanking, Step-Sibling Incest, Step-siblings, Taboo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-07-03 22:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilithsLullaby/pseuds/LilithsLullaby
Summary: They say you don’t get to choose your family. But if you had a choice, Bucky Barnes would not be your brother. He would be your lover.





	1. A Name

**Author's Note:**

> Problematic Relationships Ahead. I know this is taboo territory, but I have always wanted to explore a story of two people forced to be siblings through marriage. And I’m on such a Bucky kick lately I couldn’t resist. I hope you enjoy this sinful piece. More coming soon.

Living with your step-brother wasn’t exactly part of your initial plans for the summer after graduation. You had hoped you’d be working at a publishing company by now, the one you applied for months ago. You hoped you would be a Seattle socialite, buzzing through coffee shops and important meetings, laptop tucked under your arm. But after dead silence, you knew that dream was a farce. 

As you walk into your complex building, rain soaked and cold, you can’t help but feel utterly defeated. You had your third interview in the last two weeks that morning, and it hadn’t gone well. 

“We will call you,” the woman said as she weakly shook your hand on your way out the door. You‘d been to enough interviews now to know what that meant: “No thanks. Better luck next time.” You spent the better half of the afternoon at the Cozy Cup Cafe, eating your weight in croissants and drowning your sorrows in espresso. The repetition of past few months has left you feeling empty and cold, and not just from the endless rain. You are living in borrowed space, shuffling from one dead end interview to the next. What sort of future could you hope for when the path ahead seems so bleak?

As you fumble for your keys, you hesitate, eying the name on the door before you. A name that does not belong to you. It belongs to James Buchanan Barnes.  

You had spent your twenty-second birthday with your family; a new tradition of eating and drinking the day away, as dictated by your mother. Things had started out fine, casual, relaxing until the sky turned the burnt hue of dusk. When you were on your third glass of wine, your stepfather decided to breach a subject previously untouched while you all were sober.  

“If you can’t find a job, are you going to move back home?” he asked, before swishing his beer around his mouth, like a crude mouth wash. “You know your mother is worried...”

“I am worried,” she chimed in from the kitchen. She was sorting out tonight’s selection for dessert: your favorite cookies bought from the local Italian shop just down the road. The kitchen smelled of it, of cherries and Amaretto. “But she isn’t moving back home.”

“I’m not?” You took another sip of wine, staining the rim of your lips a deep burgundy. You rose your eyebrows toward your mother in question. But as her eyes narrowed into a glare, you relinquished a sigh, turning back to your stepfather. “Of course I’m not. I’ll be fine, Rob. I’ll find something soon.” 

You couldn’t quite refer to him by anything other than his name. Calling him “dad” still felt foreign. Strange. You hadn’t had a father figure your entire life. Your mother, you thought, was content with solitude. But then, Rob came along, completely out of the blue. Or perhaps, straight out of fate’s cruel design. Either way, here he was, propped up as your new father, as if delivered straight from the factor. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You actually might learn to love him, in time. But the idea of him being your father meant all the more that...

“You should move in with your brother,” your mother offered as she slid in next to your stepfather on the couch. She plopped a cookie into her mouth before sliding another across the coffee table toward you. “He has that nice condo in Seattle.” Her mouth was full of crumbs. “And it’s not like he pays rent anyway. Because of the accident and all...That way you can do job hunting in person without such a crazy commute. You know I don’t like you driving in and out of the city all the time. It’s not safe.”

Your gaze shifted toward your stepbrother, leaning over the kitchen counter. His metal hand, a cold remnant from his time serving over seas and the reason for his government-subsidized condo, was gripped around his beer bottle. You watched as he raised the libation to his lips, staring forward out the kitchen window. It was raining, had been since dawn, and showed no signs of stopping. It was a gloomy way to start twenty-two, you thought. You stared too intently at the way the glass touched his rosy lips, the way his breath fogged the edge. You thought of times past, a year ago to the day, and were thankful he wasn’t looking your way. That he couldn’t see how you saw him. How you always would. 

Your parents had eloped last summer, officially making him part of the family. It hadn’t been announced, nor had you been in attendance. It took a simply phone call to change the course of your future. It’s funny, isnt it? Two people fall in love, and instantly you have another family member to adjust to. Two, in fact. You were suppose to see this man, only a few years your senior, as the brother you’ve always been missing, wanting. As family. But you could hardly meet his gaze on most occasions. There was something about the way he stared at you, the way his blue eyes threatened to tear your soul apart, it made you feel like you might crumble into oblivion. He felt nothing like a brother to you. Not even close. It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You just liked him too much. You had since you met him a year ago, before you ever heard of a man named Rob wisking your mom away to the Bahamas to be married. 

“I wouldn’t want to get in his way,” you mumbled. You stared intently down at your wine which had started to look more and more like your own boiling blood.  

“You wouldn’t! Isn’t that right, Buck?” Your mother called out. You blinked as you watched Bucky turn, a deep scowl held across his too-handsome face. He caught your eye and you instantly turned away, unsettled by his intensity.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” He growled. “She’s a grown woman. She can find her own place to live.”

“Son.” Your stepfather’s tone is a warning. “She’s your sister. It’s the least you can...”

“She’s not my goddamn sister!” 

Your eyes went wide before you ripped your gaze from his. You gripped tight to the ends of your dress before finding the tittering remains of your balance. You stood, with a slight sway, from the couch. Those words still ring through your mind in the darkest hour of the night, when insomnia leaves you restless. When all you can think about is the way he looked at you then. How he looked like might he might run right through you. 

“James!” Your mother screamed in shock and frustration. She almost spilled her wine as she bolted to her feet beside you. “Apologize to her, right now!”

“Janice,” Rob said calmly, his hand on your mother’s shoulder. 

“Mom, it’s fine,” you insisted as you slowly stumbled toward the door. “I need to head back to Penny’s anyway. It’s getting late.” You attempted to make it through the living room without seeming bothered. But your head was a swirl of alcohol and anguish. You were in no state to drive to your friend’s place, where you’d been crashing for the past few weeks. You were in even less of a condition to face Bucky. You felt the tear run down your cheek before you even realized you had begun to cry.  

“Shit, that’s not what I...” Bucky sounded frustrated as he came out of the kitchen to meet you halfway to the door. His metal hand came down upon your shoulder, stopping you. He reached up with his flesh hand to wipe away the rebel tear. You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. You simply stared up at him, caught again in the deep pools of his eyes.  

“I didn’t mean that,” he said softly. “I’m drunk. I don’t know what I’m saying.” He let out a laugh to slice the thick tension in the air, but you still felt uneasy. Once again, he wiped another tear from your cheek. They refused to stop. 

“Don’t cry, you little idiot.” The way he smiled down at you, made his words sound almost endearing. “You can stay with me.”

“Don’t do this just because our parents think we are still twelve,” you muttered under your breath. 

“I’m not doing this for them.” A crack of lightning lit up the sky behind him, accentuating his sharp features. “But don’t think you can get away with not paying rent just because we’re related.”

You stepped back, putting a more comfortable distance between you. You forced yourself to smile; an expression that felt as fake as your brother-sister relationship. 

“Okay. I’ll move in with you.”

Now, staring up at his name placard, embossed with gold lettering, it doesn’t seem to register that you’ve been living together for several months now. In reality, you could hardly call what this was “living together.” You rarely saw one another. He worked a lot at the VA, nights even, and on the weekends, he was often out on dates or spending time with his two best friends, Steve and Sam. You had the condo to yourself most days, which you hated to admit made you feel rather useless. And as you walk into your shared living space, a stack of soaked resumes in hand, you are expecting to find yourself alone once again.  

But how wrong you are. 

The minute you step into the entry way, you know you’ve made a mistake. A horrible, irreversible mistake. The distinctive sounds of pleasure echo down the hall toward you, streaming from Bucky’s bedroom. The bed squeaks, followed by his grunts and erotic pants, accompanied by higher pitched moans. Female.  

“Oh God, Bucky!” The unknown visitor screams out. “Yes, Bucky! Right there!”

Your whole body goes numb. The blood drains from your brain completely. You could swear it begins to pool around your feet, but that’s just the residual rain water sliding off your coat. When you remember how to speak, you mutter a hushed curse to yourself.

You had gotten the dates wrong. Bucky warned you he was planning to bring a date home. You just thought it would be tomorrow, not tonight. You check your watch. It’s nine at night, on a Thursday. The Cozy Cup Cafe closed up shop at eight. You could call Penny, but she is out of town, vacationing in California with her boyfriend. She won’t be back home until the weekend. With no other viable option, you slowly creep toward your bedroom. It is regrettably located adjacent to Bucky’s. Each step you take feels heavy, as if the weight of your own conscience seeps into the floorboards, making them creek. 

 _I’ll grab my headphones the minute I get inside_ , you tell yourself. _I’ll blast Nine Inch Nails until I know she’s gone. Though, who knows when that will be. I might be making her pancakes in the morning for all I know._

You slip into the hallway, reaching for your door when you hear it: a name distinguishable against the nonsensical moaning that litters the air, rolling off of Bucky’s lips like a prayer. Your name. 

All movement halts on the other side of the door. The squeaking stops. Though, the hallway seems to vibrate with activity, with the chorus of your heart, drumming, pushing frantically against your chest as if it were trying to be set fear. Your palm goes sleek, slipping off the door knob. It jostles loudly. You think for one, misguided second that this mystery girl may share your name. It’s not that uncommon after-all. But judging by how she reacts, you know you are sorely mistaken. 

“What? What did you just say?” The girl snarls. 

“It’s nothing,” Bucky snaps. The squeaking returns. “Can we just keep going? I’m so close...”

“No, fuck this. And fuck you!”

You hear a shuffle, along with some meager protests from Bucky before his door flies open. The girl stands on the other side, fully dressed. It’s clear she’s done so in a hurry. A few of the buttons on her blouse are undone. Her hair is in a disarray. Her high heels dangle by their straps in her left hand, her cell phone in the other. She glares in your direction, where you stand frozen in front of your door.  

“Is this the bitch you are two timing with?” She snaps.  

Bucky fumbles out from the confides of his room. He is struggling to get into a pair of jeans, the only thing available to cover his shame. His hair is tussled; his cheeks are pink. He is out of breath, and it’s clear by the way he stands that he hasn’t been satisfied the way he needs. 

“She’s my stepsister,” he mutters, refusing to look at you as he buttons his pants closed. 

Th girl’s eyes go wide, as if a puzzle piece has just clicked into place. She fumbles back a bit, her gaze switching between you and Bucky before finally, she charges toward the front door.

“Don’t bother calling me,” she throws back over her shoulder before storming out of the condo. The slamming of the door sends a wave toward you, one that threatens to knock you back against the wall. You stare down at your feet, waiting for Bucky. When he doesn’t speak, you decide you should be the one to say something. 

“Bucky, I...”

“You’re getting water all over the floor.”

The next thing you hear is another door slamming shut. You turn your gaze up to find the hallway empty once again, and Bucky gone. An open question hangs in the space where he’d once been standing. 

Why had he said your name?


	2. A Kiss

You fall down heavy against your bed, unblinking. You stare up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers. As if the cement might tear wide open, revealing a universe speckled with a million galaxies. Places you could escape to, where things made more sense.  But instead, the ceiling remains a solid block above your head, dotted only by a fan, spinning as it attempts to cool your glistening skin. You are drenched in sweat, despite how cold you’d been moments ago in the hallway. Your wet coat remains a pile on the floor, swimming in rain water. You haven’t even bothered to change out of your interview ensemble. It must be a wrinkled mess by now. 

You listen to the clock on your wall, chiming the hour, until you become painfully aware that is three o’clock in the morning, far too late for a weekday. But there would be no sleep tonight. Not after what you’ve seen, what you’ve heard. Any normal person might have been able to brush off an awkward encounter with a few cringe-worthy moments of recall. But not you. A single word rotates through your mind on repeat: your name as a sweet moan from your stepbrother’s lips. 

You shift onto your stomach and groan into your pillow in aggravation. The sound is muffled by the plush fabric and the pounding of your legs thrashing behind you. You want to scream. You want to curse the Gods for giving you such a fragile heart and a weak disposition toward the blue-eyed Devil next door. But you wouldn’t scream. You couldn’t risk waking Bucky just to release your frustration. He isn’t much of a sound sleeper either, suffering from night terrors on a regular basis. _He needs his sleep,_ you tell yourself. And so do you. Determined, you close your eyes, counting sheep. But again, you picture him, thrusting into that unnamed woman as he says your name. As the woman’s features slowly become your own. 

There is nothing about this situation that is acceptable. Nothing you can even begin to justify. Sure, you aren’t related by blood, only marriage. That made this more reasonable, right? But still, you’d been taught enough about moral code to know your thoughts alone are truly unforgivable. 

As you toss and turn in bed, unable to shake his image from your mind, an ache within your core begins to grow, too painful to ignore. Throbbing, aching. You arch your back as you turn back around. You will need to dull the fire before you can even hope to get any sort of shut eye.

You slide a hand down your blouse, releasing a few buttons to allow your hand beneath the fabric. Your body aches to be touched, by anyone. But truly, it’s Bucky you desire. As your hands roam your body, settling on your perked nipples, you think of how he looked, standing in his bedroom doorway: shirtless and flushed. You imagine him above you that way. Your hands become his hands, exploring parts of your flesh deemed forbidden by society. They are the same hands that once held to the swell of your hips, as you swayed to the pounding of music around you. As he pulled you into the center of the club, as his lips lingered on your neck, breathing you in. You imagine how those lips might feel, leaving their mark on your skin in rose tinted patches.

Your hand slides underneath your pencil skirt, already hiked up around your waist in a crumpled disarray. You pull your stockings down, out of the way, enough to shove your hand beneath your cotton panties. The instant your fingers touch your lips, sleek with desire, you know what you need.  You push a finger inside, and then another. You thrust them in and out. You imagine the rhythm matching that squeaking of Bucky’s bed. Back and forth. Give and take. 

_Oh god, Bucky!_ You recall the woman’s voice. But she sounds familiar this time. Too familiar. _Yes, Bucky! Right there!_

Your hips move to meet your hand, coming forward. Your breathing is erratic. You bite the curve of your finger but it’s not enough to muffle your moans of pleasure. Your eyes close tight as you feel the tidal waves of an impending orgasm rock through your sex. As you near the cliff into oblivion, you pull your hand away. You can’t think, you can only feel as you cry out into the night, finding your needed release. 

“Bucky!”

Your hand is still held between your legs, your top pulled down, breast exposed, when Bucky comes bolting into the room. The door swings wide open by his hand. He looks breathless, as if he ran from the other side of the condo rather than from his room.

“What’s wrong? Are you...” His voice is loud, panicked. Until he sees you, truly sees you. His eyes widen, his jaw tightens. His grip on the door threatens to rip the handle from the wood. 

You feel hot all over, from a heat still radiating from your freshly satiated core. You pull your hand free, but your movement isn’t quite quick enough. You are certain he must have seen it, the sheen of your arousal sleek around your fingers. You fumble to cover yourself with your bed sheets as you fling your pillow at the door. 

“Get out!” You scream. Your voice cracks. A strand of hair falls over your face, sticking to the beads of sweat on your brow. Bucky dodges the pillow and slams the door shut. But before he leaves, your own eyes linger, down to the very undeniable evidence of a man’s arousal growing between his legs. 

You lie in bed, frozen once again. You stare forward at the now closed door as if doing so might calm the tempest that is your heart. You clutch at your shirt as you try to remember how to breathe. 

You hear the shower turn on moments later down the hall. You shift, your back to the wall, and press your legs together. You close your eyes, willing sleep to overtake your senses, to dull your mind and aching heart. There is no denying it now, the feelings swirling within your soul. When sleep finally comes to claim you, you welcome it’s unusual reprieve from the strangeness of the day. 

You do not dream. 

You awaken the next day with the lingering memory of the previous night. It hangs like broken fragments at the edge of your mind, ever present. You have another interview today. It is your last one for the week before you plan to dictate your misery to Penny over endless mimosas and Eggs Benedict. You reach for your phone to text her. But what could you possibly say? What would make her understand when you hardly understand anything yourself? You throw your phone on the bed and walk to the shower. Routine is what you need to return to normalcy. Take a shower, brush your teeth, put on makeup, get dressed, head for the door. You stop at the kitchen, sorting through a bin of Bucky’s protein bars when you hear the door open. 

Bucky walks in with a damp towel around his neck. He uses it to dap the sweat off his neck. His shirt is dark with perspiration and he chugs back water from a large thermos. You immediately turn back to the pantry, trying to distract yourself. But he has already seen you. He rounds the corner into the kitchen and props himself up against the counter. 

“Hey,” he greets. His hand is tight around the thermos. “Should we... can we talk about last night?”

“I’m not sure what there is to talk about,” you mutter, eyes held to the pantry. You pocket a peanut butter protein bar, sling your laptop bag over your shoulder and head for the door. 

“Don’t you have a boyfriend who can do that for you?”

Your eyes widen to the point that they may slide out of your skull and roll across the floor, forgotten. Your palms are sleek with sweat at your sides. You fidget with your skirt awkwardly. 

“I don’t have time for this, Bucky,” you mutter in response, catching a glance at him through the corner of your eye. “I have to get to my interview.”

“So you don’t then?”

You turn more to look at him. He is closer than you thought he was. Just a foot between you. 

“No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” you mutter, feeling embarrassed and ashamed. _Not anymore_ , you want to add. “And I’m not sure how any of this is relevant.” When you turn back around to leave, he reaches out for your hand. His fingers settle over your own and he says your name in a way that is soft, gentle. Not at all what you were expecting. You feel him pressing into your back until the warmth of his body is all too overwhelming. 

“It is very relevant.” His voice is a warm cascade down your neck. He leans in closer until his lips threaten to trace the scoop of your ear. “You know if you need help with anything,” he says in a whisper. “Anything at all. I am here for you.”

You swallow hard and pull away from him. You think for a moment that perhaps you should mention his role in last night’s revelation. That you’d heard what he said, whose name he moaned in a release of ecstasy. But you shake your head, willing your thoughts to silence. You open the door but linger in the entryway long enough to hear Bucky whisper, “Good luck today.” 

You leave without saying another word, the door closing the distance between you, capturing the tension you hoped you’d leave behind in the condo. But it lingers, hanging around you like a fog as you take the bus to your interview. You cling to the railing, refusing to sit down. Your interview is with a startup publishing company on the other side of town. It’s young, but very well established within the local community, responsible for indie magazines and nitch novellas. It’s not an industry powerhouse by any means, but it’s a start. You bury your face into your phone, doing as much research into the company as you can. But mostly, to distract yourself. To force yourself to think of anything other than Bucky Barnes. It’s useless, however. Even as you walk into the company office, greet the secretary and wait in the lobby, your mind is stuck like a broken record.

_Good luck today._

“Miss,” the receptionist calls. “Mr. Stark will see you now.”

You pass her with a polite smile, sliding through the open doorway. In front of you is an open office, plush and modern. Traditional workspaces are replaced by standing desks and freeform collaboration areas. Cubicles be damned. There’s a wall lined with cereal dispensers and across the way, adjacent to a wall made entirely of glass, is a ping pong table. It is equally occupied by competitors and spectators alike. Your interviewer, Mr. Antony Stark, lounges horizontally in a too-large beanbag chair in front of you. You’d read that he is an investor in several different segments across the U.S.: neurotechnology laboratories, astrophysics firms, government weaponry. And this, The Inkwell, is his latest endeavor, dubbed a midlife crisis by the tabloids. He edges his sunglasses down enough to get a good look at you before sitting upright. He says your name as way of greeting, stands, offering his hand for a firm, but not assertive, handshake. 

“I received your references this morning,” he says as he walks you through the office. It seems this will be a walk and talk style interview. You struggle with the weight of your laptop.

“My references, Mr. Stark?” You worked at Starbucks in college as a barista. You hadn’t requested any references be sent in your favor. 

“Please, call me Tony,” he replies with a smile as he adjusts his sunglasses to settle into the neckline of his shirt. “They were rather impressive. Your writing is quite good. Young, in need of polish and refining, but good. We could use your eye for craftsmanship, that’s without a doubt.” 

“My writing? Mr. St... Tony, I am not sure I’m following you.”

Tony stops mid-stride and presents a stack of papers out to you, ones you are sure he must have hidden in his coat up until now. You take them from him and recognize the content almost immediately. It is a collection of old short stories, submissions to local newspapers, and essays from school. All of which is your own work. And at the top of the package is the mailing address: The Seattle Veterans Administration. _Bucky_. 

Your jaw falls open, unseeing. “I’m flattered you think so highly of my work,” is all you can manage to say.

“Don’t inflate your ego too much, kid,” he laughs. “I said you need work. And what better place to improve then at The Inkwell.”

You aren’t sure you’ve heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, are you offering me the job?” You stammer, to which he simply nods, as if you were speaking of the weather. “But what about the interview?”

To this, Tony wholeheartedly chuckles. “This was the interview,” he replies. “Now tell me, when can you get started?”

You walk to the bus stop an hour later in a dreamy sort of delirium. You clutch a stack of on-boarding papers to your chest, smiling at every stranger who passes. _I got the job!_ You want to tell them. Though, they wouldn’t care if a stranger‘s professional triumph. There is only one person who might share your enthusiasm, and for the first time since last night, you hope to find him home. 

You swing open the door with the same stupid smile plastered to your face. You drop your laptop on the kitchen table, along with the HR papers, and practically skip toward the living room. You almost collide into Bucky as he rounds the corner from his room. He captures you by your shoulders, preventing you from knocking your skull into his chest. 

“You look unreasonably happy,” he laughs. The way he grins down at you almost makes you forget all about the previous night and your misgivings toward him.

“I got the job!” You sing, bouncing up and down on your heels. “They offered it to me on the spot.”

“Really?” He exclaims in glee. “That’s my girl!” He captures you in the expanse of his arms, spinning your around swiftly. Your toes just barely touch the floor. “I knew you’d blow them out of the water!”

You giggle as he finally places you back down on your feet. You clutch into him, to settle your vision and ease the vertigo swirling around your mind. You smile brightly up at him.

“It was thanks to you,” you say shyly. “I don’t know how to thank you for sending those papers to them. I don’t even know how you found all that. Did mom help you?”

He leans down and for a moment, you think he means to kiss you. But his lips touch the top of your head instead as he holds the back of your head in the palm of his hand. 

“You’re amazing,” he whispers. “You don’t need to thank me. You did all the hard work.” 

When he pulls away slightly, you take a greedy moment to slide your hand up his arm, gliding over the silken fabric. You savor the way he smells, the musky cologne he only wore for dates lingers on his skin. Regrettably, you realize all too quickly that he is dressed too formally for a simple night in the condo. And the way he rounded the corner, he must have been on his way out the door. 

“Hot date tonight?” You mutter in question, pulling away from his hold completely. “I thought after last night you would have given up on dating for at least a little while.”

The mere mention of last night makes you queasy.

“An old friend from the force is in town for a few days,” he explains, standing a little straighter. “She wants to meet for a drink downtown. Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious,” you repeat. Your smile has quickly faded. “Well, I guess you’d better get going. Wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

You sulk back toward the living room, collapsing into the cushions of the couch, daring them to swallow you whole. A bit of your light has deemed. You reach for the remote and turn on the Hallmark channel. A cookie-cuter romance starts on cue. You settle back into your seat, focusing your attention on the contrived storyline, and away from Bucky. After a moment of silence, you hear footsteps as he walks behind you. 

“We can celebrate your job offer when I get back,” he promises. “I’ll take you out to dinner somewhere nice. Anywhere you want.” You hear the familiar jingle of his keys in hand. And then nothing, as if he passed through the wall, as if he faded into vapor. You slump forward, your head falling into the open palms of your hands, defeated. You breathe in through the cracks of your fingers. 

“Hey Nat,” you hear from behind you suddenly. “Yea, I’m sorry I’m going to have to cancel our plans.” 

For a few minutes, you don’t speak, afraid of how you might react. Would you tell him he is being ridiculous? That of course he should go see his friend. Or would you turn around, your hidden emotions plainly written on your face like a naive child? You couldn’t bear the thought. Instead, Bucky breaks the silence. He leans over the couch, presenting you with a glass of champagne. The golden bubbles cascade up toward the surface, fizzing slightly at the edge. 

“Where’d you get this?” You ask, dumbfounded as you take the narrow offering.

Bucky comes around the side of the couch to sit beside you. He balances his own share in one hand while using the other to loosen his shirt, to get more comfortable. 

“Been saving it for a special occasion,” he says with a sly wink. He leans forward and taps his glass against yours. Though, you barely move to meet him. “Congrats on your new job.”

“You don’t have to stay here with me, you know.” There it is. The giving in. The guilt of being here with him. “Go on your date. We can hang out later, like you said.”

Bucky takes a sip of his champagne and glares at you over the edge. He doesn’t say a word as he grabs the remote from your hand and turns on Netflix. You watch him scroll through potential titles, lifting your drink to your lips. The bubbles slightly tickle your skin.

To your surprise, he picks a film from your Watch List, “High Rise” staring Tom Hiddleston. 

“Haven’t seen this one,” he says simply as he starts the film. “Do you want popcorn?”

You nod and watch him walk back into the kitchen. Staring down at yourself, you realize you aren’t exactly dressed for a night in either. You had chosen a form fitting dress that made sitting down a bit of a challenge. But without the luxury of getting changed into something more comfortable, you opt for a blanket. You pull it up over your shoulders as Bucky come back into the living room. He turns the lights off, allowing only the glow of the flat screen television to illuminate the room. He hands you the large bowl of popcorn as he settles in beside you and starts the film.

You sit in silence, all focus held to the film. It’s fine, for the first twenty minutes at least. That is until the sex scene comes onto the screen. A scene you must have memorized at this point, having watched it on repeat out of pure desperation. Your jaw tenses, as you continue to watch. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Bucky shift, his arm resting on the top of the couch behind you. His throat bobs as he swallows.  

The scene seems impossibly too long. You feel nervous suddenly, ill at ease. Finally, the content shifts, but the tension remains. It is so thick in the air you fear you may never break through it. When you can no longer stand the silence, you turn to Bucky to ask, “Did you mean what you said?” 

You leave it open-ended, hoping he’ll pry for more specifics. But instead, he arches an eyebrow in intrigue and flips your question in his favor. 

“Did you?”

You blink, confused. 

“What ever happened to Brad?” He clarifies. “Last I checked, he was your boyfriend.”

_I don’t have a boyfriend_ , you recall saying that morning. Just before he’d promised to help you, with anything. 

“He broke up with me,” you tell him with the roll of your eyes. It was nothing to cry over. It happened just before New Years Eve. Perhaps that made you unlucky to have gone into the year without a partner to embrace at the stroke of midnight. But truly, you were glad to be rid of him. You can’t remember what you liked about him in the first place. Perhaps it was his blue eyes, his dark hair. A superficial substitute. “He was a horrible kisser anyway.”

“Oh really?” Bucky perks up beside you. The movie continues to play in the background, now just a distance din, hardly a distraction. “Are you sure you aren’t the one who’s a bad kisser? He broke up with _you_ after all.”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” you huff, flicking a kernel of popcorn at him. He plucks it off his shirt with a smile and plops it into his mouth. 

“Except from Brad,” he teases, to which you playfully smack his arm, the flesh one. 

“No, seriously,” he continues with the edge of laughter on his tongue. “How do you know you’re even good at it? How much practice have you had?”

“Enough.” You clutch tighter to the blanket, pulling your legs underneath you.  

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” 

You turn to look at him, determined that he must be joking. But the way he looks at you leaves little room for jest. You try to play it off, forcing yourself to laugh.

“Like you’re an expert,” you scoff, reaching for another handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap. His hand catches yours, stopping you. 

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he replies with a devilish smirk. 

“Bucky...” Your throat feels thick, like you can’t quite breathe, can’t quite think. And he is so close. Too unbearably close to ignore.  

“It’s just a kiss,” he whispers. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

But to you, it would mean everything. Everything you’ve been fighting to ignore.

“I don’t think that’s a good...”

“Come here.” His voice is a husky seduction as he turns to face you fully on the couch, beckoning you closer with the curve of his fingers. He sets the popcorn down on the coffee table, threading his fingers through yours. You shift toward him, your whole body trembling, echoing the frantic rhythm of your heart. You feel buzzed from the champagne, or perhaps from his proximity. You aren’t sure who is moving your body, but if you had any will power left, you’d have run straight for your room and locked the door. You are stepping over the threshold into dangerous territory but you can’t seem to stop. 

You are practically in his lap when he reaches a hand behind your neck, pulling the loose strands of your hair back, out of the way. 

“You’re joking, right?” You stutter. “Are you trying to get me to agree to this, only to hold it over my head later?” 

“Close your eyes,” he orders, ignoring your stammering protests. So you do, letting the world fade into darkness. Without your sight, you focus on the feeling of his body, pressed into yours. His hand, held to yours, is resting on your thigh. The other is wrapped protecting around your neck. He tilts your head back slightly. Your lips part in anticipation. 

_It’s just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything._

But when his lips touch yours, you know you’ve started down a path you won’t soon be able to reverse. His lips simply caress your own at first, as if a means to get familiar. It’s agony the way his touch lingers, barely touching, barely moving. His warm breath pools into your open mouth, until you let go of a whimper. His lips curve into a smirk before he presses into you, taking the fullness of your mouth with his. His tongue licks the opening and you let him in.  He tastes like the champagne you shared and the buttery film of popcorn. You let your tongue swirl around his in a forbidden dance, wondering when the last time was that a man has kissed you like this. Surely Brad had tried, but you were always quick to cut his exploration short. With Bucky, you want to savor every second, drinking him in like fine wine. You reach up a hand to thread through his hair, tugging slightly. He reacts with a pleading moan into your open mouth, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. 

After what seems like an eternity in his embrace, he pulls away. You don’t dare open your eyes. Not yet, not until you can get your bearings, settle your racing heart. Your mouth hangs ajar and you lick your swollen lips tentatively. When your eyes finally flutter open, you notice the credits rolling over a black screen in front of you. How long have we been kissing?

“Brad is an idiot,” Bucky says in a low whisper. He looks at you as he stands with a soft, almost hazy expression. His normally bright eyes have darkened and his shirt seems to have come further undone. Perhaps by your own hand. He takes the remaining popcorn into the kitchen. 

“For the record, you aren’t a horrible kisser,” he remarks. His back is to you. 

“I don’t have any complaints either,” you reply, hiding your flush beneath the blanket that you've now pulled up over your chin. 

You hear him laugh as he walks back toward his bedroom. 

“Goodnight, doll,” he calls back. His door opens and closes. You blink at the black screen and touch your fingertips to your lips.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say, more to the darkness of the impending night than to the man you’ve just kissed. The man you regret to remember is your stepbrother. 

_It’s just a kiss. It doesn’t have to mean anything._

_Liar_


	3. A Dance

Your twenty-first birthday just so happened to land on the last day of the spring semester junior year. Your phone buzzed that afternoon as you were walking into your apartment, tired after a long day of final exams. It was a text from Penny demanding you to meet her at eight for a “night of debauchery”. Dressed in your designated “clubwear”, you assumed she only wanted to get you plastered, now that you could legally do so. But it was more than a birthday celebration, you’d soon come to realize. It was a going away party. 

“You are going to be there for a whole year?” You stammered as you climbed into your shared Uber. “Why Paris? And why now? We have two semesters left before graduation.”

“It’s the city of love,” she replied, batting her false lashes at you in an exaggerated fashion. “I’ve always wanted to live there, you know. And it’s a study abroad, not a spring break trip.” 

“Yeah, but a whole year?” You didn’t want her to know how pathetic you truly are. That she was your closest friend, your only friend, really. And without her, you’d be lost, forced to navigate your senior year alone. Penny was, for all intensive purposes, your social life.

“Oh, relax,” she said with a smile, leaning over to squeeze your shoulders. “I’ll call you everyday. And it will fly by, I promise you.”

The Uber pulled up to Penny’s club of choice for the evening, The Underworld. It was a local favorite that always had a line out the door despite its hefty cover charge. But Penny knew the bouncer, apparently. Penny knew everyone. The bouncer promptly allowed you both to slid inside, past the velvet rope barricade without so much as a nod in your direction. Inside, the DJ was blasting remixes from recent radio hits you hardly recognized. And suddenly, you felt overdressed. Compared to the men and women around you, in full display of their bodies, you were practically a nun. You saw more skin than fabric. 

“I’m getting you a Blowjob,” Penny announced as she grabbed your hand and pulled you rather reluctantly toward the bar. You barely had a minute to register your surroundings, let alone your best friend’s seemingly vulgar offering.  

“I’m sorry... a what?” You shouted over the roar of music. 

You stumbled toward the bar behind Penny where a crowd was blocking any access to the bartender. Penny, not one for social graces, pushed her way in rather unapologetically until a suitable clearing formed for the two of you to stand. 

“One Blowjob shot please!” Penny ordered from the bartender with a beaming smile. Her offer had been for alcohol after all, much to your relief. 

“So what’s the plan exactly?” You asked, wedged up beside her so she could hear you properly. “Are you going to find a handsome stranger and go out with a bang?”

“More like I’m going to find _you_ a handsome stranger,” she corrected with a wink. “Now, bottoms up!”

Here’s the thing about a Blowjob shot. There’s a certain way you have to drink it: glass against the bar, hands behind your back, lips around the rim, shoot it back. Of course, Penny had to explain all this to you while you slowly turned the bright shade of a ripe tomato. But still, you humored her by grabbing the shot glass (topped with a healthy heaping of whipped cream) and throwing it back. You did all of this only using your mouth. The sweet sting of alcohol burned your throat all the way down. But it felt good. When you were done, glass slammed down on the bar, you were met by a chorus of cheers from the crowd of strangers around you. You wiped the remnants of cream from the corner of your lips with a shy smile. It’s funny how unruly behavior can make quick friends. 

“That’a girl!” Penny cheered as she clapped you on the back. 

You licked your lips, gradually taking in your surroundings of rather drunk, and perhaps aroused, men who had witnessed your sensual shot. You were suddenly paralyzed by stage fright. As you scanned the bar, your gaze locked onto one man in particular at the other end. A man with long, unkept dark hair and piercing blue eyes, who stared back at you with a strange intensity. He was alone, it would seem, lingering in the shadows. He smirked and rose his drink to you in greeting once he caught your eye.

“Time to dance!”

Penny pulled you away from the bar with a renewed urgency. It didn’t take long for you to lose sight of the man, swept up into the swaying mass of the dance floor. You kept close to Penny and avoided overly handsy dance partners. But once you found a suitable clearing, you closed your eyes and matched your rhythm to the music, willing yourself to get lost in its hypnotic pulse. 

“Let me guess, twenty-first birthday?” 

The words were whispered against the nape of your neck, causing you to spin around in alarm. Your eyes met with the dark haired stranger from the bar who was smiling down at you as if he’d known you his entire life. You stepped back a bit to avoid the unnecessary proximity. You continued to dance, moving ever so slightly to the pounding beat. Your feet refused to keep still. 

“How’d you know?” You asked with a glare. 

“It’s not everyday I see a girl get a blowjob in The Underworld.”

You spun around, annoyed. But Penny was already gone, lost somewhere in the thick crowd of dancers. And you were alone. Defenseless. At least you had pepper spray, or had you left that at home?

“Sorry, that was a shitty way to introduce myself,” the man said with a sigh. You turned back around only to find him rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “I haven’t done this in awhile...Not that I normally do things like this.” 

“Do what?” You shouted back. The music had suddenly become much louder. The bass a persistent drumming in your ear. You had to step closer to hear him at all. 

“Go to nightclubs,” he clarified, his own voice amplified as best he could manage. “Or talk to beautiful women.”

The heat rose up over your cheeks. But you didn’t step away. 

“Has that line actually worked for you before?”  

“Is it working now?”

You laughed, genuinely, just before he reached a hand out to you, like a proper gentleman and smiled. His pearly whites caught the spotlight overhead. “Bucky,” he introduced. 

You took his hand, telling him your name. “I don’t do this much either,” you told him. He held tight to your hand, his flesh warm, comforting. “Go to nightclubs, I mean.”

“Well you are clearly no stranger to dancing,” he replied. “May I?”

A simple nod had him leading you both further onto the dance floor. His other hand came up to rest against your waist. His touch, which had inched up under your top to caress your bare skin, was surprisingly cold. You took a moment to look down and saw that his fingers were encased in metal. He pulled you closer, his head leaning down against your neck as he noticed you staring.

“Afghanistan,” he explained. His jaw tightened, his shoulders tensed. But you slid your hand down his faux appendage, appreciating its craftsmanship, it’s grooves and subtle indents. It didn’t bother you. And your touch relaxed him instantly, allowing you to settle comfortably into the heat of his body. 

“Why did you come here tonight, Bucky?” You asked. You were close enough that shouting was no longer necessary. 

“I wanted to be someone else for the night,” he replied. His grip on your hip tightened. “I wanted to forget a lot of things.”

“Maybe this will help.” You reached your arms up to encase around his neck, and leaned your forehead against his. He sighed against you, smiling as he played with the ends of your hair. You didn’t say another word, letting your bodies communicate through the subsequent dance; the back and forth sway of the music, the caress of your hands over each other’s arms and hips, the grind of your curves against him. His lips lingered near your neck, threatening to have a taste, but he never dared overstep his boundaries. He merely savored the way you smelled, your scent lingering on his own skin in the musk of the bar. His scruff scratched your skin slightly, but you didn’t mind it. Not at all.

Eventually, you lost track of time. The crowd began to fade into blurred dissonance around you. Nothing else mattered but the rhythm at your feet and the feeling of Bucky’s arms around you. It took the bartender’s announcement for last call to break you from your mutual trance. You shuffled back away from Bucky’s embrace, astounded by how empty the club has suddenly become. How the evening had slipped from your fingertips. 

“It’s late,” you murmured, reluctantly pulling away even further. “I should probably find my friend and head home.”

Bucky nodded but took your hand in his, kissing your knuckles softly. “Thanks for honoring me with a dance, birthday girl,” he whispered against your flesh. He stepped away.

“I’d like to see you again.” The words shocked you, even as they left your lips. Clearly that shot had made you daring.

“I’d like that too,” he replied with a sweet smile. He slipped a business card into your hand. “Call me sometime.”

The card read his full name (sans middle), James Barnes, with his cell phone number etched underneath. 

“Promise you won’t try any strange pick up lines on me next time,” you remarked as he reluctantly let go of your hand. He took one more step back, laughing. 

“But they worked so well for me this time.” He winked before disappearing past the bar, out into the shuffling crowd of night dwellers beyond the bend. He stole one last glance your way, as if he were memorizing the way you looked in that moment; flushed and flattered. Penny emerged from the woman’s bathroom just in time for her gaze to follow Bucky as he left. She raised her eyebrows at you, mouthing a message you could not decipher from her distance. As she got closer, you realized that she too must have found someone with which to occupy her time. Her lipstick was smeared in a rosy halo around her lips and her dress strap was dangling precariously over her slender shoulder. Though, it would seem that her “dance partner” had already made a quick getaway while you weren’t looking. You were the only two patrons left in the club. 

“Please tell me you got his number,” she pleaded as she approached. Her voice was littered with a mild slur to reveal her level of intoxication. You hooked your arm through hers and walked out into the cool night air. You breathed in deeply, staring up at the moon, like a beckon held high up above. You pulled the card from your jeans and presented it to her. But she was too drunk to see much properly. 

“You better call him,” she scolded as your chariot arrived to take you home; a pale minivan Uber. “He was gorgeous.”

“I will,” you promised. 

But you never did. His business card sat on your desk, like a trophy to be admired but never touched. It took months for you to muster up the courage to finally give him a call. You were sure he wouldn’t even remember you by then. Regardless, you picked up your phone. To your surprise, it started to ring in your hand before you could even think to dial. For a hopeless moment, you thought it could have been him, having found a way to reach you on his own. But it was your mother, calling to change the course of your fate, and to tear your heart in two. 

She was getting married. 

_I didn’t know_ , you tell yourself over and over again, when thoughts of that birthday now plague your mind. _How was I you to know he’d become my stepbrother? How would anyone have known?_  

But you’d known very well what he was to you last night. And yet, that hadn’t stopped you from kissing him. 

You never spoke to him of the night in the club. You promised yourself you never would. The first time you met as newly acquired family, his stern glare had been enough of an indicator to keep your past hidden. Perhaps, you would do the same now, letting your kiss be nothing but a forgotten dream.

You wait for Penny at a your usual spot, a local breakfast joint situated on the outskirts of a residential park. The park itself is frequented by joggers and families out for weekend strolls. You watch as a few runners breeze by. Occasionally, you look up long enough to wave their way before returning to your cappuccino, already gone cold.

As long as you’ve known her, Penny has never been punctual. But you haven’t seen her since that night at the club. Patience will be necessary today. Especially if you hope to calmly and effectively explain your situation. Your decreasing sanity. 

You turn your attention back up toward the park as a familiar runner breezes past your table. You watch him stop and suddenly jog backwards toward you. 

“Hey!” He says in greeting as he hunches over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. His voice is slightly strained from the excursion of his run. “Your Bucky’s sister, right?”

You recognize him almost immediately. You’ve seen him often enough, lingering in the condo before stealing Bucky away for weekend activities of fun and mayhem.    

“Stepsister,” you correct with a smile. “Steve, right?”

“Yea, hey,” he says again with a bright, almost nervous smile. He eyes the empty seat on the other side of your table. “Are you waiting for someone?”

“My friend, Penny,” you explain. “But she’s late. So, if you want to sit for a minute and relax...”

He runs his hand through his sweat-sleek blonde hair before taking your offering with exhaled appreciation. He leans back in the chair and sighs once more up into the sky. For a moment, there is only silence between you. You can’t think of much else to talk about other than the one thing you have in common: Bucky. And he is the last person you want to mention. You subconsciously lick your lips at the fleeting thought, the memory you can’t seem to chase away.

“Bucky told me you got that job at The Inkwell.”

You look up from your coffee mug, held in your grasp like a crutch. Steve is wiping the sweat from his brow. “Congrats,” he adds with a grin. 

“Thanks.” You take a sip of your cappuccino. “I was honestly starting to worry. It’s been months since graduation. I have to start making a name for myself at some point.”

“Do you, though?” 

You tilt your head in question and he leans closer as if your expression were an invitation.

“Have to make a name for yourself,” he clarifies. You aren’t sure what he means, but you are pulled into him by the icy blue of his eyes. They feel like home somehow. “Isn’t it sometimes better to just fade into the chaos of life? No notoriety. No fame. Just... living for life’s sake?” 

“Did you major in philosophy?” You tease, kicking him under the table. 

He grunts, pulls away and laughs, easing back into the chair. 

“No, I joined the military right out of high school. Same as Bucky.” 

You purse your lips together, shoulders square. “That’s right... I should have guessed by how close you are two are. Same unit, right?” He nods. “Bucky doesn’t tell me much about his time overseas.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Steve replies. “He doesn’t talk to anyone about that.”

“I wish he would. At least to me.” It’s too late before you realize the words had been said aloud. You reach once again for your coffee to save yourself from further slip-ups.  

“You know, I’ve always wanted the chance to talk to you more,” Steve breaks the silence that follows. “It just never seemed very easy before now.”

You swallow a large gulp of cold cappuccino, starring at him from over the rim. You raise an eyebrow in question, prompting him to keep going. 

“I’ve only seen you in passing at Bucky’s but... I always thought you were cute.” It’s endearing how pink his cheeks become as he speaks. You convince yourself it must be from the run. “Maybe we could grab lunch sometime, get to know each other better.”

Over his shoulder, you see Penny practically running toward you, flustered by her late appearance. She waves frantically. You smile her way, giving her a small, barely noticeable wave of your own. Steve peers over his shoulder and quickly shuffles out of the stolen seat. 

“I should get going,” he says, looking down and away. “Glad I ran into you though.”

He starts to run off when you call after him. “Let’s do it!”

He halts, turning back around. His eyes are wide, but his smiler is even wider. It only makes you hot with embarrassment, realizing the skewed context of your exclamation.  

“Let’s go for lunch,” you correct. “I’d really like that.” You have no reason not to. No reason to deny the offer of a handsome man. No reason to deny yourself the potential of seeing where it might take you. One lunch wouldn’t hurt...right? 

“Yea?” Steve brightens, his whole aura radiates against the rising heat of mid-morning. “I’ll have Bucky give you my number. Enjoy brunch.” With one last fleeting smile, he runs off, back into the spiraling abyss of the park. You watch him go as if he might reveal himself to have been just some sort of mirage. A construct of your imagination. 

Penny falls into her newly empty seat with a huff, bringing your attention back to the table. “I’m so sorry,” she groans, her head tilting back against the chair with an exaggerated roll. “I’m the worst friend ever, aren’t I?” 

“Shut up,” you tease, your cheeks still pleasantly pink from your encounter with Steve. “You know I still love you.”

“And I’m so utterly undeserving.” She turns around with a wild grin. “By the way, who was that gorgeous specimen?”

“Steve,” you explain with a small smile. _Not a mirage afterall._ “Bucky’s friend.”

“Bucky...” she repeats, as if the name registers somewhere in her memory. “Oh, that’s right. When do I get to meet this mysterious new brother of yours?” 

“Stepbrother,” you correct, as you are so apt to do these days. As if it made that much more of a difference. “And you don’t really have to.”

“Maybe I want to.” She reaches for your cappuccino, stealing a swig. “The way you described him left a lot to the imagination. A girl’s mind tends to wander...” 

You swallow hard and signal for the waiter, but he is otherwise distracted. “Enough about me,” you stammer. “What about you? How’s Paul?”

“Paul is old news,” she announces with a scowl. “I dumped him in San Diego. He was so boring.” 

You always knew Penny breezed through men like used tissues. But this had to be a new record. They’d hardly been together for a month. An American fling, fresh from her return out of Paris. 

“But now that I’m single...” She reaches across the table to jab your arm. “Does Mr.Barnes have a girlfriend?”

You swat her hand away before your gaze falls down to stare intently at the swirl of milk and coffee within your porcelain mug. You should have ordered tea. Maybe then you could have attempted to predict your future. 

“Penny, there’s something I need to tell you...” you begin to say.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” Penny’s shrill voice scrambles your thoughts. “A new shop opened on Fifth this week. And I seriously need to update my fall wardrobe. Come with me?”

You force a smile and nod, tucking away the notion of any sort of serious conversation. Your confession would have to wait for another day, if at all. Penny isn’t exactly the type to sympathize with such a situation. Nor is there anyone else with whom you might trust enough to confide in. Your secrets would have to be your burden to bear, alone. For a little while longer at least. 


	4. A Drunken Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday, my lovelies :) I hope this chapter finds you well! I’m really having fun writing this piece. It’s so deliciously awful. What can I say... I apparently live for these soap opera fics.

You spend most of the afternoon with Penny, distracting yourself with superficial exploits: shopping in the Promenade, grabbing Boba tea downtown, discussing the latest gossip from Paris. You don’t care about any of it. But it is an easy way to let yourself forget. For a little while. 

It doesn’t take long for your mind to inevitably wander back to Bucky. For as long as you’ve been “officially” related, you have always felt that your affections toward him were one-sided. That you are the one with the unusual attraction, with the unnecessary emotions reserved for hopeless dreamers. But it hadn’t started that way. Bucky had, after all, pursued you first at The Underworld. It was evident then that he was attracted to you. Surely those feelings still existed in some realm of possibility. They didn’t just go away... did they? Or was it simply that now that you were family, he could never see you as any than his little sister? The thought makes you shiver. You, on the other hand, have never quite accepted this new perspective of him being your brother. He is simply just... _Bucky_.  

But what sort of stepbrother offers to kiss their sister? If it had been done as part of a poor judgment call, then it had also been a cruel play on your emotions, on your need to feel vindicated. 

The sun is beginning to set by the time you make it back to the condo. You manage to drop your keys on the counter before a post-it note in the kitchen catches your eye. The fluorescent pink paper flutters slightly under the AC vent, threatening to fly away from the fridge.

_Went out for beers with the guys. Be back later. - Bucky_

You pull the note off the door. It is almost symbolic that his first words to you since last night would be delivered through a post-it. Just a fleeting, inconsequential blurb in scribbled ink. You subconsciously pocket the odd trinket and head toward the living room.  

When you turn on the television, the image is frozen to the end credits of “High Rise.” You are quick to change the content, not wanting to be reminded. You hadn’t seen Bucky at all since that night. You’d assumed he’d already gone off to the gym that morning before you woke up. That wouldn’t be unusual for him. However, you can’t help but feel as if he is purposefully avoiding you, not wanting to face the disgusting truth of what you’d both agreed to doing last night. Now that the reality of it had sunk in. 

The more you linger on the memory of the kiss, the more delusional the whole thing sounds. In the moment, you hadn’t allowed yourself to think. You’d hardly even hesitated. Your universe had collapsed into that singular instance. There was no other reason, no other logic besides you and Bucky being together, holding one another as lovers would. But you weren’t lovers. You could never be anything other than what society had determined for you. Free will, you decided, is life’s greatest lie.

You pull out your phone, holding it level with the pastel pink note. You sigh, type and send. You had to say something, you tell yourself. Silence is stifling, home to paranoia and ruin. You wouldn’t allow that.

_Have fun tonight. See you when you get home_ , the text read. Like some rehearsed line from Small Talk 101. You throw your phone across to the other side of the couch, prohibiting yourself from sending anything else, or seeing his reply.  

It takes thirty minutes into your chosen entertainment for your phone to finally buzz. You stare wide eyed at the illuminated screen. The light is a strange, alluring beckon against the darkness of the condo.  You stare at it, unmoving for a moment too long. The screen dims. You relinquish a sigh, believing the temptation to have passed, only for your phone to buzz a second time moments later. 

Like a moth drawn to the flame, you snatch up the phone. It isn’t a text from Bucky. But from Steve.

_Hey! I asked Bucky for your number. I hope you don’t mind._

And the second text: _I’m really looking forward to seeing you again._

Your hand hovers over the virtual keyboard, unsure of how to respond. But your fingers move on their own, almost automatically. An unused part of your brain takes control for a moment. 

_I’m looking forward to it too._  

You run your hand down your face, letting the phone drop. Your heart is suddenly racing. Is it nerves making you react this way? The giddy response of a smitten schoolgirl? But somehow, this feels different. As if agreeing to the date will end in consequences beyond reason.  

Before you realize it, you've dozed off on the couch in the midst of a mindless marathon. It’s a miracle you managed to relax your mind enough for sleep. You blink, rubbing your eyes and focus in on the static, and painfully familiar, message on screen. _Are you still watching?_ You stretch your arms up over your head and begrudgingly head toward your bedroom. Lazily, you begin to undress. First, you slide out of your jeans, leaving them as a pile on the floor. Threading your fingers through your hair, you allow the sad remains of your braids to come undone completely.  

You are just about to slip out of your blouse when your bedroom door flies open behind you. You clutch tight to the loosened fabric at your chest and turn around to meet your intruder. Standing in the doorway, is Bucky, who looks as if he ran through the fires of hell just to get to you. He is flushed, aggregated. 

“Jesus, Bucky! Would you learn to knock?” you shout in annoyance as you fumble to secure your blouse back in place. The buttons slip out of your grasp.

“You are going on a date with Steve?” He barks. He searches, eyes scanning back and forth between your own, as if the answer is held within the hollow space of your pupils. 

You stare back at him, unblinking, as you stand at the edge of your bed. The backs of your knees hit the mattress. “Yes,” is all you manage to say. He charges forward, closing the gap between you. The door swings closed behind him. 

“Why?” 

“Why what?”

“Why are you going out with him?”

He is dripping with anger, seething like a bomb about to detonate in your hand.

“I don’t... I don’t know.” You stumble over the words, unsure of what to think, what to feel. 

“You don’t know and yet you agreed to it? Damnit, doll, why are you like this?”

“Like what?” Your voice is firmer now, more determined. You shake off the fear that once left you frozen in front of him like a pliable doll. You let all of your pent up frustration consume you. “Bucky, what’s gotten into you?” you demand. “What does it matter to you? Is it because he is your best friend? Is there some unspoken rule about this?”

He steps closer. You almost lose your balance, struggling to keep on solid ground. Your knees buckle beneath you. “What can he do for you that I can’t?” He questions in a growl. “What is he that I’m not?” 

Your eyes go wide. You study him, though he doesn’t look up at you directly. His gaze is held to the floorboards. From what you can see of the whites of his eyes, they are bloodshot.  

“How much did you have to drink?” You ask in a low whisper.

“Answer the damn question!” 

“I don’t know, Bucky, maybe he’s not my stepbrother!” you shout back cruelly. The words feel like venom on your tongue, spat in the face of your reflected sins. Your words give him momentary pause. His gaze lifts to meet yours, dazzling like small collected galaxies. And when he speaks, you feel yourself lost within the universe of his penetrating stare. A fish caught, thrashing in the net of an unforgiving captor.  

“That never seemed to bother you before.”  

Your heart thumps up into your throat. You can’t swallow it down. “Bucky...”

You stumble back, falling against the bed under the pressure of his proximity. He leans over you, caging you in under his arms. His palms press down on either side of you. You are held at his mercy. 

“I’m tired of pretending with you,” he whispers. His breath washes over you. The remnants of stale beer are heavy on his tongue. He is so close. And you can’t move beneath him. “And I think you are too.”

“Get off me,” you protest. “You don’t know what you are saying.” You push up against his shoulders, but still, he won’t budge. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he dares. “Tell me you didn’t feel something last night when we kissed.”

You open your mouth to speak but all words are lost to you, gone out the open window like a forgotten breeze. You know he’s right. You know that a thread had been sewn between you in that moment, one could not easily remove without breaking your own heart in the process.

“I can’t stop thinking about you.” He cups your cheek with his hand, his knee comes up to wedge between your legs, pushing them further apart. Suddenly, you become painfully aware that the only barrier between you is a pair of thin cotton panties. “How you smell, how you taste... I want you. More than I should.”

“This isn’t normal, Bucky,” you plea in a whimper. But you can hardly convince yourself that there is truth behind your words. It has never felt wrong to love Bucky. Not the way it should. “We can’t do this,” you say, to yourself as much as to him.  

“I don’t care what you think we can do. I care only about what we want to do... what I want to do _to you_.”

His lips come down against yours with such a fervent need, you are helpless to stop him. Helpless to prevent the universe from collapsing around you. All you can hear is the sympathy of sin, numbing your senses. You want this too. You want all of him, everything he has to offer. His love, his pain, his reckless abandon. And with your heart crying out to him in admitted surrender, you reach your arms around him. You pull him down by his hair, the way you’ve learned he loves. He bites and tugs on your lower lip, leaving you to whimper into his open mouth. Your first kiss was nothing compared to this. To the unbridled passion of unspoken acceptance.

“I can give you what you need,” he moans against your lips. “Everything you need.”

His hand grips firmly to your thigh, his fingertips brushing an area once forbidden to him.

And you want him to. Gods be damned, you want this more than anything. More than your job at The Inkwell. More than Steve. But despite your desire to embrace his forbidden sort of love, you grasp onto a brief moment of clarity. You shove hard against his shoulders, forcing him to fumble backward. He lingers at the edge of the bed. His eyes are wide, his mouth gaping open. 

“Do you not want this?” He asks, stumbling over the words. In that moment, he looks broken, fragile. 

“I don’t want to do this while you’re drunk,” you manage to admit. An unspoken truth lingers between your words. The truth that you would want to do this, if he were sober. You lean over to him, where he now sits at the edge of the bed. Without thinking, you smooth back the mess of his hair away from his face. The act is oddly affectionate. When you realize what you are doing, you jerk back, as if doing so had burnt your hand; the fires of Hell come to claim you for their own. You had acted impulsively. But it felt as effortless as breathing. The same way kissing him made you feel: _alive_. You keep your hand against the side of his face, staring at him in his state of intoxicated disarray. Come tomorrow, he might not remember any of this. Not his angry outburst or his sudden confession. But you would. You would remember every second of it and be keeper and guard to it’s associated guilt. 

“Bucky, go to bed,” you say softly, letting your hand trail down the firm edge of his jaw.  He leans into your touch, closing his eyes. 

“I’d much rather stay here with you,” he hums. He turns to kiss your fingertips. 

“I know you would,” you reply with a sigh. “But not tonight.”

For a moment, you sit together, as if you were just a man and a woman. Nothing else. This is the way you’ve always wanted it. But a part of Bucky, still alert enough to reason, comes forward from the dregs of his mind. He stands up from the bed.  

“I’m....” he stops himself, shaking his head, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages to say. 

“It’s okay. You aren’t thinking clearly.” You reach for your pajama pants, eager to cover yourself. To cover your shame. But it’s almost a strange relief to hear him come to his senses. This can’t happen again. You can’t let it. You’ve had a taste, but nothing more. 

However, he shakes his head more violently this time as he clings to the door knob with a metal grip.  

“I’m sorry you’re my sister,” he admits before leaving the room, and you behind to collect the ashes of his ruin. 

You hardly sleep, but when you do, you dream of him. In this subconscious world, constructed from your hidden desires and needs, Bucky belongs to you. To you alone. And you are his. There is no judgment in your dreams, nor fear of persecution. There is only your love, blinding out the darkness. Here, you are as you’ve always seen yourself: a woman in love. In love with a man without title, without pretense. Just Bucky.  

If your mother had never met his father, things would have been different. Things would have been acceptable. Simple but binding vows had locked away your chance at true happiness. And now... now you know he feels the same, because of his drunken confession. This isn’t a one-sided crush. This is mutual.  

You decide to get dressed before you stumble out of your room the next morning. You are exhausted both mentally and physically, and need the confidence of a sorted outfit in order to face Bucky. You find him slumped over the kitchen counter, seated in one of its bar stools. There are dark rings under his eyes. His skin is tinted a sickly yellow, and he keeps fighting what looks like the urge to vomit into the sink.  

Without saying a word, you start the coffee machine and reach for a bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. You slide the poured cup of caffeinated cure to Bucky while you pop open the bottle, placing two white capsules on the counter in front of him. He peers up at you from where he is hunched over against his metal fist for support.

“You’re a saint,” he groans in appreciation. He gives you a weak smile that does not quite reach his tired eyes. He throws back the pills with a swig of coffee and sighs. 

“Fun night, huh?” You freeze as the words leave your lips. The insinuation is far too dangerous for your liking. You try to think of a way to amend your question before he speaks for you instead. 

“What time did I get in last night?”

You blink back at him. You’ve situated yourself at the other side of the kitchen, leaving an impressive distance between you. But no amount of space could ever possibly make you feel at ease with him again. Not now. Perhaps not for a long while. 

“You don’t remember?” You prod. Your voice is barely louder than a whisper.  

He takes another slow sip of his coffee and stares down into the mug. 

“God, I must have been so wasted,” he moans. He rubs his thumb and forefinger over the bridge of his nose. “I remember going to the bar. I know I stumbled into an Uber at some point and then...” He looks up at you, his blue eyes glistening. But he blinks and turns back to his mug. “I need to stop drinking so much.” 

You can’t help but laugh at his suggestion. It would be a relief to see Bucky finally go sober. Ever since you’ve known him, alcohol has always been his scapegoat. A way to suppress his memories of war, the images that still haunt his every waking thought. It is an easy, if only temporary, solution.  

“Did I ... did I say anything to you?” 

Bucky’s face has sudden become sullen, almost fearful. He stares at you, waiting. You shift uncomfortably under his gaze. You chew on your bottom lip, deep in pensive thought. You weigh your options, and the consequences of each. There would be no winning choice. But you could at least save Bucky from inevitable regret. 

“No. No, you didn’t,” you lie. “I must have been asleep when you got home.” 

At first, it seems as if he might doubt the truth of your statement. But eventually, he gives in, relinquishing a sigh of relief. He smiles slightly into his coffee mug. Your heart is racing again. You swear he can hear it, even from your distance across the room. Determined to avoid discussing such a shameful night any further, you change the subject. 

“Do you want to nurse your hangover for the rest of the day?” You ask after clearing your throat awkwardly. “Or... if you are up to it, do you want to maybe, I don’t know, do something together?” Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, without meaning or wanting to seem so flustered. You had intended on seeming impartial, almost disinterested. That had proven futile. 

Bucky’s left eyebrow arches in intrigue. “What did you have in mind?” He asks, giving you a genuine smile. But as soon as he begins to straighten up, seemingly energized by your offer, your phone rings from the living room, where you left it the night before. You don’t make any move toward retrieving it.

“Don’t you want to get that?” Bucky’s gaze narrows slightly.

“It’s probably a scam call,” you brush off. “It’s too early for anyone of importance to be calling me.”

As if struck by lightning, Bucky’s expression shifts quickly into a deep, unforgiving scowl. “Steve’s a morning person.” 

You blink a few times before you stutter a response. “Why would Steve be calling me?”. It is the wrong sort of question to be asking Bucky. Especially now. 

“I may have been drunk, but I still remember that you and Steve are apparently a thing now.” His voice becomes oddly defensively, just as it had last night in his drunken rage. “Should I get my tux dry cleaned for the wedding?” 

“That’s not... we aren’t a thing,” you struggle to say, suddenly exasperated. “I agreed to have lunch with him. That’s all. That doesn’t mean we are an item. That hardly even makes us friends.” _Deja Vu:_ that feeling of relieving a precious conversation. But maybe you never spoke to each at all last night. Maybe he never admitted to having feelings for you, romantic or otherwise. Maybe it had all been another dream.

You turn your back to him to fumble through the fridge, scourging for something to eat. You reach out for an apple, your hand shaking midair. You feel dazed, unattached to your body. Your thoughts form into words before you can contemplate their meaning. “Though... I suppose I should be testing out my kissing skills on someone who will actually appreciate them.” You bite into the fruit with a loud crunch. 

“You don’t think I appreciate them?”

You turn around, the retrieved juice dribbling down your chin. You don’t bother wiping it away, too caught up in his odd response to do so. 

“You shouldn’t,” you reply softly. You could move forward toward him. You could stand beside him, look him square in the eye and confront this tension head on. But your feet are rooted to the ground. You are paralyzed by fear. Bucky is the one to move, stepping down from his bar stool. He cautiously walks into the kitchen and stands before you, keeping an arms length between you. 

“I’ve wanted to talk to you,” he admits. He nervously threads his fingers through his sleep tussled hair. “About last night. About so many other nights.”

He means to discuss the club, you think to yourself. After a year of ignorance, the silence will shatter, if you’ll let it. “Maybe now isn’t the best time,” you reply slowly. But he whispers your name, reaching out, only to be interrupted by the condo’s door bell echoing toward you. You both turn instantly toward the sound. Bucky’s hand falls away. 

“Expecting someone?” He practically growls. Like some territorial animal. 

You charge toward the door, eager for an excuse to be rid of the unfinished confrontation left lingering in the kitchen. You don’t bother with the peephole as you blindly swing the door wide open.

“Good morning!” Penny cheerily greets from the other side. She is wearing a short, skin-tight dress that accentuates the sweeping curves of her large breasts and hips. Her ruby red lips are pulled into a wide, toothy grin. She seems too chipper for so early in the morning. “I brought provisions.” She pushes a bag of bagels into your hands before shoving her way past you into the condo. Bucky rounds the corner from the kitchen in time to meet her. 

“Penny, what are you doing here?” You are completely blindsided. It’s not that Penny doesn’t have your address. She’d sent you a myriad of postcards from Paris over the past year. You even sent a few of your own in return. But it isn’t like her to show up unannounced. Or to come dressed as if she were looking for something more than just friendly conversation. 

“Is this him?” Penny’s grin widens more than you thought physically possible as she bounces toward Bucky. Each step accentuates her lack of support. Even you become distracted by the delicate sway of her breasts with each exaggerated movement. She leaves you standing behind her like some common maid, tasked with handling her mediocre chores. You clutch onto the paper bag with white knuckles to channel your frustration.

 “Have we met before?” She asks Bucky. She’s standing too close. “You look awfully familiar...” 

“I don’t think so,” Bucky stammers nervously as he smiles back down at her. His gaze drifts subtly back toward where you stand in the abandoned doorway. “Penny, I assume?” You reluctantly nod in response as Penny extends her hand in greeting. Again, your phone rings, forcing you to address its persistent caller. You dump the bag of bagels on the kitchen table and lean over the back of the couch to retrieve your phone. You don’t immediately recognize the number but answer it anyway. 

To your surprise, it’s the receptionist from The Inkwell. Apparently some paperwork had overlooked during your haphazard interview and you would need to come into the office to provide some signatures. That is if you wanted to start work on Monday. 

You scramble to sort out your bag, searching frantically for your keys when Bucky halts your progression with the firm touch of his hand to your shoulder.

“Everything okay?” He asks gently. There is something unspoken beneath his words but you can’t quite decipher what it could possibly be. 

“I have to head into the office for a bit.” Your eyes move back toward Penny, still standing beside Bucky. “Will you be okay?” You ask him. “You still don’t look so good...”

“I’ll keep him company!” Penny offers immediately. “He’s in good hands. I promise.”

“Uh... yea, ok.” You sling your bag over your shoulder and grab a bagel for the road. “I’ll see you later then?” The question is for Bucky alone. But he doesn’t respond. He merely stares at you as you walk out of the condo, where you leave him to Penny’s apparent care. You can’t quite pinpoint the feeling, knotting within the pit of your stomach as you descend the stairs toward the lobby. It gnaws at your insides, leaving you hollow and void. But perhaps the best way to identify it is the simple but nullifying feeling of _jealousy_.  


	5. An Honest Answer

With you, Bucky knows there are only two paths he could follow. One would lead to a beautiful, yet tragic love, doomed from the start. But in exchange for being with you in the way he desires, you would have to abandon the world you know. You'd have to leave behind friends and family who would never accept a relationship bordering the realm of taboo. 

The other path leads to severed ties of another nature. Bucky would have to succumb to societal pressures, acknowledging you for what the world demanded of him. He would have to incinerate all hope of winning your affection.  By breaking your heart. By saving you from the humiliation and tragedy that his love would bring. 

At the bar, Bucky drowned his trepidation in yet another beer; his sixth that evening. The previous drink had been ordered just after learning of Steve’s interest in pursuing you. It wasn’t all that shocking. You were the perfect woman, after-all. Any man would be blind not to see you the way Bucky did. And sitting there beside Steve, he saw a new path form before him; a route charted in clear view. Steve was the perfect gentleman, a man of honor and loyalty. They’d fought side by side for many years, and he trusted him, more than anyone else. There was no other man, save for himself, who Bucky could ever allow into your heart. Only Steve. If ever there were an opportunity to let you go, this was it. 

But just as he was about to give into the possibility, his phone vibrated against the bar top. He saw your face, bright and vibrant beside your delivered text. 

_See you when you get home._  

The things he wanted to tell you, the words so often left unspoken in his lingering glances. _Tonight_ , he thought to himself. _I’ll tell her tonight._  

But still, he drank himself to oblivion, perhaps from a fear of rejection. Seven drinks down, and all memory of that night faded into foggy recall. Only echoed words remain with the soft rays of morning sunlight: _I don’t want to do this while you’re drunk._

And now, rather unexpectedly, he finds himself sitting at the kitchen table. But not with you, as he would have liked. But across from Penny, a so-called friend of yours. He’d much rather be sitting with you in his lap; a scenario he so often imagined during family dinners. He thought of placing you there so innocently, so unassuming. But all the while, he would push his metal hand under your skirt and pleasure you beneath the table. He’d push his cold fingers inside of you, one after the other until you were begging for release. 

Unlike so many of the women he’d been with before, you never shied away from his artificial limb. You appreciated it in a way no other woman ever could. To you, it didn’t make him any less of a man. To you, it made him so much more valuable. Because of what he’d sacrificed. Because of what he’d gone through just to make it back home. And for that, and so many other reasons, he knows his heart belongs to you alone.

Over the past year, he’d succumb to his base, animalistic needs in the beds of many willing women. He’d pick them up at bars or chat with them using random dating apps. But every encounter was never quite enough. As if he could never completely scratch the itch, left unsatisfied in the wake of momentary intimacy. But he knew what he was searching for could not be found in the tangled sheets of his one night lovers. They were all subpar replacements for what he truly desired.

He’d often have to clamp his hand over their mouths to avoid listening to them moan.  He hated the way they sounded. Their voices were never quite right.

They didn’t sound like you. 

Seeing the way you looked at him that morning, as if you were silently tearing apart, made him that much more determined to end your mutual charade. He remembers how you danced with him a year ago. How your hands had wandered. How you moaned ever so slightly at the prospect of feeling his lips against your neck. He knows what sinful truth lies within your heart; the same as his own. Twin liars living in parallel to one another. Denial had been so deeply engrained into your routine that you’d forgotten there could be any other way. This is your only reality. Unless one of your breaks the glass. And Bucky, metal fists at the ready, is determined to create shards. 

But fate has other plans for him today, it would seem. 

“So, you were in the army?”

Bucky bites into his toasted bagel, slathered in a generous amount of cream cheese. His head is still throbbing despite your gift of aspirin coursing through his veins. A stabbing pain radiates from just behind his bloodshot eyes. He narrows his gaze upon your friend at the other end of the table. 

“Marines,” he corrects. “And once you’re in, you’re in for life. There is no past tense.”

“Ah.” She looks disgruntled by his response as she sips on the coffee she poured whilst making herself at home in your kitchen. “Must be odd,” she starts to say, smirking over the rim of her mug. 

“What is?” He leans back in his chair, one hand held to his own morning beverage. Outside, lightning strikes. Thunder rattles the building ever so slightly. She is walking out there, he thinks to himself. In the streets alone, without a coat or an umbrella. The little idiot is going to be drenched. The thought of you coming home, shirt clinging to your bare breasts makes him stiffen against the confides of his jeans. It makes him think back to that image of you he couldn’t quite erase from his memory: your fingers buried into your cunt, pleasuring yourself. He winces before chugging back a mouthful of black coffee. He stares forward at Penny with a glare, prompting her to speak.

“Must be odd to suddenly have a new sibling at your age,” Penny clarifies. 

“I suppose,” he grumbles in response. He takes another bite of the bagel but his mouth seems impossibly too dry and stings of leftover bile. He abandons the prospect of breakfast immediately. 

“And you’ve been in Seattle for awhile?”

“The last two years or so. I was in recovery at the VA for some months before I was discharged.” He rotates his arm, as if in emphasis.

“Was there anything you did for fun? When you first got out, I mean.”

“Not particularly.” 

He can tell she’s talking in circles, trying to get him to admit to something. 

“I mean, who knows, you might have even met her before.”

He narrows his gaze at her across the table. “What are you getting at? I don’t exactly have the time for your little game.” Or the patience for it either. Not when his brain is threatening to leak out his ears. The thunder roars around them once more, vibrating within his skull. 

“I remember you,” she says finally, tracing her finger along the edge of her coffee. A tentative circle all the way around. “At first, I wasn’t sure. But when I came here today and actually saw you, I knew. I knew where I’d seen your name before.”

_That’s right. She had been at the club that night_. Though, he could have sworn she looked to be too drunk to function. Far too drunk to remember anything of importance. Apparently, he’d been wrong to assume so. 

“What is it you want from me, Penny?”he growls. “Are you trying to blackmail me? Because I don’t really care what you do. Tell the world. Tell the whole goddamn planet. It doesn’t matter.” 

“Doesn’t it though?” She glares. “If you cared about her at all, you’d stop what it is you’re doing.”

“And what exactly am I doing?”

“Making her fall in love with you.”

Bucky’s eyes widen ever so slightly, before settling back into a void expression of discontent. She can’t know she’s affecting me. But his panic is clearly written across his torn expression. His mask is gone. 

“What exactly is it you suggest I do instead?” Bucky’s response comes through gritted teeth. His hands form into fists atop the table. “Because the way I see it, this is my life. It’s her life. Not yours to dictate.”

His gaze follows her intently as she stands and slowly stalks the length of the table, coming toward him. Once she is at his side, she glides her hand over the round form of his flesh fist. “You’ll only end up breaking her heart,” she says, matter-of-factly. “Any relationship with her will not end well. I’m trying to save her from that pain. From that humiliation.”

“By doing what exactly?”

She takes him by the hand and pulls him to stand. “By offering you an alternative.” She leads him away, fingers laced through his. And while he remains skeptical of her motives, he still follows her blindly into the living room. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, she pushes him down onto the couch before positioning herself rather suggestively, straddled atop his lap. His eyes go wide. His hands grip to the plush cushions of the couch to keep from reacting more violently. He would not lay a hand on her. Not until she forced him to.

“What are you...”

“She wasn’t the only one interested in you that night,” she whispers. Her hands glide up under his shirt, tracing over pale scars that litter his chest; scrap-metal fragments from the crude bomb that took his arm. That took his dignity. He grabs her wrists with an iron grip, stopping her from proceeding any lower. She doesn’t deserve to know him so intimately. But she grinds her hips forward, and much to his own disgust, his body reacts automatically to the friction of her body against him. 

“I think you want me too,” she sings triumphantly. She thrusts forward against him again, repeating the action until he growls defiantly and grips tight to her hips. She moans happily, taking his actions as approval.  

“You don’t know me, Penny,” he manages to growl. It is taking all of his will power not to succumb to military conditioning. The mentality he fought so hard to suppress upon his return home. But still, he wants to disarm her. To maim her. To take out the enemy. His hands begin to tremble against her waist. “You have no idea what it is I want.”

“You want her,” she responds evenly. “But you shouldn’t. I’m right here. You don’t need to think about her anymore.”

Her mouth collides into him, searching, persuading. He resists at first, keeping his lips locked tight together. But the more she insists, the more he gives in. The more his mind reverts into itself. Her touch brings forth memories once hidden beyond the veil of drunken amnesia. He remembers the way he kissed you, the words he confessed, and how easily you’d given into his embrace. His arms wrap around Penny and he kisses her back, forcefully; an embody of his desperation, the pure carnality of his need. But he wants to punish Penny for ever daring to take you away from him. For having the audacity to assume he might discard you under the mere prospect of another willing woman. Enraged, he bites hard on her lip. He clamps down until he can taste her warm blood pouring into his open mouth. He drinks from her in victory as she whines in protest. Her eyes bulge with terror. She shoves hard against him. 

“What the fuck?” She screams, outraged and wounded.

“Don’t ever try that again,” he growls as he pulls free. One hand grips tight around her throat, constricting her breathing to the point of shallow gasps. The other yanks hard on a fistful of hair. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

And as Penny squirms against his hold, the door creeks open behind him. His head spins toward the sound. His grip falls away. You appear as perfectly as he had pictured you: drenched in chilled rain water. He can see the clear outline of your full breasts even from his distance in the living room. Your nipples are taut from the cold, your teeth chattering. You shake off the excess water like a dog, a silly grin on your face. 

“Damn rain,” You laugh. “I swear the cloud was just over my...” Your gaze lifts and you stop dead in your tracks as if you’d just run into an invisible wall. Your smile falls down into the cracked flooring beneath your feet. You stare forward, both seeing and unseeing. Finally, blinking only once, your gaze focuses on your friend who is still situated rather unapologetically in Bucky’s lap. The rain slides off your shivering form like extended tears that have yet to reach your eyes.   

“What... what are you doing?” You stammer. 

“Oh, hi,” Penny says casually in greeting. She wipes away the blood, trickling down her mouth, with the back of his hand. To hide the evidence. “We were just...” 

“Get the fuck out.” The command is slow, purposefully. Not screamed aloud, but spoken in one, even tone. Penny smiles nervously but doesn’t make any attempt to move away from Bucky’s lap. She says your name as if a means to calm you. “I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” she says. There is no remorse in her voice. Only the vague sense of pride. Of accomplishment.

“Is that so?” This time, your voice is a hiss, released between teeth now grinding together. Your eyes go directly to Bucky who has craned his head backward unnaturally to look at you. Your expression breaks instantly, shattering any remaining composure. 

Penny speaks yet again, oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere. “Hey, I’m sorry if this...”

“Get out!” There it is. The anger. The suppressed aggression that had been waiting just below the surface for release. Your rage rolls off your shoulders and plummets into where the two have been caught on the couch. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for Penny to make her escape. Her eyes dilate in panic as she fumbles away from Bucky, barely stealing a glance his way as she bolts for the door. She combs her fingers through her hair and reaches for her bag. 

“Listen, sweetie, I didn’t mean...”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you snap. “Just leave.”

“Why are you so mad?” Penny laughs again. It sounds forced, desperate. Her hand rests over her lips. “He’s just your brother.”

_Just your brother_. Even though the words may have been meaningless, not intended to harm, Bucky feels the sting of their impact. Your jaw tightens and you open the door, not even looking at your friend as you silently tell her to go.  Penny slings her bag over her shoulder and slides out the door. She doesn’t say another word, stealing just one final glance at Bucky. Her ruby lips are now stained by blood.

Overwhelmed, Bucky let’s the final waves of his rage consume him. “What the fuck is wrong with your friend?” He snaps as he jolts up from the couch and charges toward you at the doorway. “No, I take that back. That bitch is not your friend. She’s a deceitful little cunt. Don’t hang out with her anymore. Do you understand me?”

“Seriously, Bucky? That’s what you want to say me?” You bark back. “I’m gone not even thirty minutes and you start making out with my best friend...And _she’s_ the bitch? What... what’s gotten into you?” You sniffle and turn away, rubbing at your eyes. 

“That’s not... I wasn’t...”

“I can’t... I can’t believe you.” You turn slightly to look at him and he can see that there are tears in your eyes. True, tangible tears this time. Salty and bitter. You are shaking all over, as if small tremors are erupting within your heart. “After everything you said last night... I thought... I’d hoped... “ 

Bucky stands before you, his eyes dancing over your rain soaked form from head to toe. Finally, his gaze settles onto your trembling lips. The lips of a confessed liar.  “You said you never saw me,” he says carefully. He reaches out to you but not quite daring to touch his hand to your skin. “What exactly did I say to you last night?”

You peer up, fear plainly written across your face. Until, your eyes seem to soften, locking onto his lips. You extend a hand toward him, your fingertips slightly brushing against his parted mouth. 

“Are you bleeding?” You ask. 

“Not my blood,” Bucky replies. His jaw relaxes, he leans into your hand, lips remaining edged toward your touch. And for a moment, he thinks you might understand. That you might have discerned the truth from what you’ve seen. But you shake your head, pulling away in disgust. Bucky licks his lips clean of the remaining filth. 

“What exactly happened after I left?” You ask but quickly bite the inside of your cheek in regret.

“Would you believe me even if I told you?” He asks sternly. You look away, uncertain.  

“I should get changed,” you mumble, changing the subject immediately. “I need to... I have to get back out to the office before dark.”

“Use the bathtub in my room,” Bucky suggests. “You need to warm up first before you do anything. You’re shaking from the cold.” Finally, his hand comes down to rest against your shoulder. His tone becomes much more serious. “When you are done, we need to talk. We can’t keep putting this off like we always do.”

You nibble on your lip nervously. But you nod all the same, moving past him and disappearing into his room. When he hears the water turn on moments later, he sulks into the kitchen, washing his mouth clean of Penny. He hunches over the counter, letting the water drip off his chin into the sink. So much had transpired between you both in only a matter of a few days. The catalyst, he knew, was the mistake of letting your name slip past his lips that first night. He can’t even remember that woman’s name. It wasn’t important. His mind wasn’t with her. It was with you, as it often was whilst he fucked nameless women. As he came to the thought of you taking every drop upon your extended tongue. And seeing how you pleasured yourself that night, with his name screamed in ecstasy, the connection seemed undeniable. 

_She wants this too_ , he decided.  

Staring forward past the panes of glass fogged with rain water, he smiles to himself. No matter the cost, he is ready and eager to embrace the unknown with you. Consequences be damned. There is no time left for second guessing. He bolts out of the kitchen and charges toward his bathroom, newly determined.  

He urgently knocks on the door, a first for him as of late. “Hey, are you decent?” He calls out. 

“Um, Yea?” You respond. Your voice sounds shaky. 

He slowly opens the door, and peers inside. 

“I just thought that...”

He stops when he sees you. You are seated at the edge of the tub, gingerly testing the water from the spout with your fingertips. Wrapped around your waist, to hide your nakedness, is a short towel that barely reaches mid-thigh. You look up at him with childlike innocence. And he loses all train of thought instantly. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he pleads with nervous laughter, his hand shoved back through his hair. 

“Like what?” You ask. So unassuming. His beautiful temptress. And the way you bite your lip only drives him deeper into the madness of lust.

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He cocks his hip, leaning against the doorway. 

“Enlighten me.”

Two simple words become an invitation; an open door to bridge the gap between brother and lover. He stares at you for a moment before taking the initiative and stepping inside. You move just enough so he can sit comfortably beside you on the edge. He leans over you to turn the faucet off, the water now filled to the brim. When he pulls back, his hand lingers on your thigh, where your hand rests idly. He takes it and places it his chest, so you feel his heart racing beneath your fingertips. The undeniable evidence of your effect on him. You look down at your own hand, breathing deeply. Then, lifting your gaze to his own, you take his hand, and place it above your left breast. Beneath your skin, he can feel the thunderous song of your heart. Like a humming bird caged within your chest. You sit together in silence. Listening. Feeling. In time, the dual rhythms become the same, beating in unison together. 

“Last night, you told me you were sorry I was your sister,” you whisper, eyes falling. The cotton fabric of his shirt wrinkles within your grasp. “Did you mean it?” 

Bucky swallows hard. “Yes.”

“Why would you say something like that?” Your voice waivers between shame and uncertainty.  

“You know exactly why.” 

He lifts your chin with the tips of his fingers, forcing your gaze back upon him. 

“Bucky...” 

“We need to stop fighting this,” he tells you. You close your eyes, fear so tightly held between your trembling lips. You start to pull away when he holds your head in his hands, steady. Your eyes jolt open, meeting his. “Stop fighting me,” he says gently. “If you want this, I’m right here.” He leans in closer, so he can breath you in. The sinful sweet aroma of your skin. He brings his lips so they can lie dangerously close to your own, not quite touching yet. “But if I’ve misjudged this... if you don’t want to do this with me, I’ll back down. I’ll never speak of it again. We can go back to the way things were.”

You shake your head but struggle to speak. As if the words are caught in your throat. After a few shallow breaths, you manage to reply. “The way things were...,” you repeat, tasting each word upon your tongue. “I can’t remember a time when I ever saw you any differently than I do now.”

“And how do you see me, Doll?” The term of endearment separates you from the notion of siblings. “Am I your brother? Am I that man you danced with at the club? Or am I something else entirely?”

“You are just...Bucky,” you reply. Your hand lifts to cup his jaw, rough with neglected stubble. Your fingers trace delicate lines along his skin. He hums, pleased by the simple caress. “Just Bucky.”

“Is that all?” He leans his forehead against yours. “I was half expecting a much more dramatic answer.”

“Tell me how you see me then,” you offer with a small smile. And with his hand inching up your back, to rest against the base of your neck, he breathes in deeply, letting his hesitation melt away. 

“Would you prefer if I said you are only a little sister to me?” He asks in a low husky voice. “Or do you want the truth?” 

You swallow before answering with, “The Truth. No more lies.”

“The truth is that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he admits. “Sister or not.” He lets his lips graze yours ever so slightly. Enough to make you whimper against him in defeat. “And I know that right now, I want to kiss you again.”

“But Penny...” you stutter. 

“Tried to seduce me,” he explains finally. “She remembers me from that night in the Underworld. Where we first met.” He threads metal fingers through your hair. “I shouldn't have been such a coward. I should have taken you home with me that night. Maybe things would be different now if I had.” He laughs lightly. “You know, I use to stare at my phone just praying, hopelessly, that you might call. Just so I could hear your voice one more time.”

“Penny tried to blackmail you,” you say softly, eyes wide with sudden realization. You mutter something under your breath, a curse perhaps. He merely nods in response. 

“She knows what I want,” Bucky says firmly. “She knows I want you.”

Your eyes dazzle as you gaze up at him. He waits, hanging on the possibility of your rejection. As if this may be his final chance to hold you like this, to pretend for a little awhile that what he feels for you is mutual.

“I want you too, Bucky.” 

A tear runs down your cheek, pooling around his touch, seeping through the gaps of his fingers. He stares at you, unblinking as his own eyes glisten. His heart stops.

“I’ve always wanted you,” you continue. “In a way I know I shouldn’t. But in the only way that’s ever felt right.”

He whispers your name, pulling you closer.

“But what about mom and Rob?” You ask suddenly in a palatable panic. “How will we explain this to them? What will we say?”

“Don’t think about that right now,” he orders. “This isn’t about them. It never has been. This is about you and me, Doll. No one else.”

His thumb glides across your lips, urging your mouth open. He watches your eyes alight with promise and dares to push his thumb past your parted lips. Your little tongue timidly licks the flat end of his finger. He guides it in further, until you wrap your lips around him and suck, your eyes fluttering closed. 

“Fuck,” he lets out as a moan. “If you keep doing that, I won’t be able to stop myself.” 

You peer up at him, swirling your tongue around his thumb. “Maybe I don’t want you to,” You hum against his flesh. You pull off his finger with an audible _pop_. As you move forward, you let your lips gently touch his. He gives you full control, deciding when and if this will progress any further. Your mouth parts, giving him access. And greedily, his tongue slides inside. His hands go to your thighs, gripping tight to your supple flesh. He yanks you forward, making you yelp in surprise, and brings you down onto his lap. Smiling against his lips, in a sense of pure euphoria, you fumble with his shirt. Like an impatient child. You urge it up over his head, halting your kiss as he undresses for you. You stare down at him in utter delight and appreciation. You make note of his former wounds, your fingers caressing their delicate, pale lines. Your hand raises to the conjuncture where metal meets flesh in a crude display of scar tissue. You gently kiss the point where man meets machine. He watches you with tear filled eyes. He is quick to chase them away. 

“You’ve kissed me three times now,” you murmur against the metal. “I didn’t realize you were such a tease.”

“Me a tease? That’s rich coming from you!” He laughs. “You are sitting here, practically naked, and I’m a tease? You do realize it’s taking every ounce of my self control not to rip that towel off of you right now.”

“This towel?” You smirk back at him. You begin to pull the cloth down, your nipple barely concealed beneath. But your hands are trembling. Your movement is uncertain. Bucky can see right through your facade, the mask of self-assuredness. The truth is that you are paralyzed by fear. He reaches up to stop your hand. You look away, timid once more, all remnants of the faux confidence now gone.

“Hey, look at me,” he says gently. He leans into you, kissing the corner of your mouth. “We've wasted too much time lying to one another. No more pretending. We have to be completely honest with each other from now on. So if you aren’t ready, we can stop right now. I’ll understand.”

“I don’t want to stop,” you tell him before kissing him back, fully on the mouth. Your touch lingers. “I just... I need you to take the lead.”

Bucky pulls away, a bit bewildered. 

“Doll... are you a virgin?” His eyes widen in near panic. Though, he can’t help but smile as he studies your growing embarrassment. _To think I could be your first..._ He sighs, knowing it’s more than he deserves. But despite knowing that, when you do respond, he feels the tug of disappointment tight within his chest. So tight he is forced to swallow it down like a sour pill. 

“No, I just...” Your gaze falls to your hands. You play idly with the frayed end of the towel. “It’s been awhile. I don’t know if I’m any good at it. I haven’t... had as much practice as you.”

“You make me sound like such a slut,” he says with a smirk.

“You are a slut.” You smile shyly.

Bucky leans back down, to leave a trail of kisses down your neck. You arch your back and crane your head backward, exposing more flesh for him to explore. “Who was your first?” He wonders aloud. “Did he take his time with you? Did it hurt?”

“He came after being inside of me for no more than five seconds,” you admit in a whisper. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh. 

“And did the asshole even bother to make you cum afterward?” Bucky growls against your skin, before biting down. He leaves his mark upon your flesh. You moan deeply.

“No.” A deep red hue sweeps over your cheeks. 

“Then he was no man at all.” 

Suddenly, Bucky scoops you up into his arms. His movement is so swift that you let out a yelp in surprise. You cling your arms around his neck, hiding your delighted smile in the curve of his shoulder.

“Let’s not do this here,” Bucky whispers against your ear. His breath is hot with desire. He stands and leads you both out of the washroom, back into his bedroom located adjacent to the tub.

“What about the bath?” You ask meekly. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you warm.”


	6. A Helping Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been loving everyone’s reactions via the comments section! Keep those coming. 
> 
> As I hinted at before, my favorite placeholder for this chapter was -beard tickles - ;) Enjoy!

“I can smell you.” He peers up at you beneath dark lashes. “I can smell just how wet you are, doll.”

You lie back against his bed, the towel now pushed away. It is placed around you like flattened wings, no longer serving it’s original purpose. Instead, you’ve placed one arm protectively over your breasts, while your other hand wedges between your thighs. It is a meager cover, a sad excuse for modesty. But it’s your only defense against his sexual surrender. You are otherwise bare before him. Body and soul on full display. 

Bucky is positioned between your legs. He takes your ankle in hand, kissing the bottom of your foot gently. You try to turn away, so as not to look. But you can’t help yourself. You want to watch him discover your body for the first time. To take in every inch of your flesh with wonder and delight.

It had hardly taken much coercing to pull the towel away. Just the gentle guidance of his hand down the center of your body. He had seen some of you in that brief moment, enough to make his face alight with promise. Now, he smirks up at you in pure triumph. _I’ve won_ , he seems to say. _I have you_. His expression fades as he moves his lips from the heel of your foot to your taut calf in one swift line. He is working his way up to a much greater trophy. 

You’ve never been in Bucky’s room before. Not really. Maybe once or twice before, when you'd offered to do laundry. You hadn’t taken the time then to appreciate the minor details of the room that so clearly spoke to Bucky’s softer side. When Bucky first laid you down upon his bed, you had spread your fingers out against the comforter, enraptured by its soft texture; the material akin to velvet. It is a dark burgundy hue, like rich wine. The sheets beneath, now pulled away, are made of some sort of silk. The entirety of the bed is a sensory dream. An effortless seduction upon your skin. But perhaps it its true intention is to lull a restless occupant into needed sleep. And with it, only peaceful dreams.  

How often you’ve heard him calling out into the night. Names of dead soldiers, friends he couldn’t save. And once, when you worked up the courage enough to come to him, intending to bring him needed comfort, you found the door locked. But you stayed, listening through the small crack in the door. You listened to him silently sob away his troubles. 

_Let me take your pain away_ , you wanted to tell him. _Let me be your comfort._ Maybe now, you could be. 

“I’ve imagined this scenario countless times in my head,” Bucky hums. He kisses beneath the curve of your knee. “It doesn’t seem quite real yet.” His words are a whisper held against the supple flesh of your inner thigh. He pushes against your knees, urging them to part just enough for him to continue worshiping you. Higher and higher. Your hand still holds protectively against your mound. You can feel the evidence of your arousal sleek against your fingers, seeping through.  

“To think I could have been doing this all these wasted months...” His chuckle vibrates against your thigh. 

“We have plenty of time now,” you reply with a small smile, certain your face much be five shades darker than it had been moments ago. “No need to rush.”

“Doll, you do realize I’m dealing with a year’s worth of pent up sexual frustration,” he jokes. “Once I start, I’m not stoping. Do you understand me?” 

“I don’t think... “ you start to say, but pause to catch your breath. “Maybe we shouldn’t have sex yet. Not tonight anyway.” You bite your lip to channel your nerves. But any further speech is silenced as Bucky’s mouth brushes up against your fingers, turning all sound into rich moans of pleasure. He kisses and sucks on your skin, just at the apex of your inner thigh. The curve of your leg meeting the joint of your pelvis. A point so dangerously close to where you want him the most. 

“I didn’t mean sex,” he says with a smirk just before his tongue slides against your fingers, licking at your wetness. “Tonight, I want to taste you.” 

He pushes your hand away with the force of his need, until you reveal yourself to him completely. Your hand rests uselessly atop your lower stomach as you peer down at him. He kisses just above your swollen clit. Slowly. Methodically. His warm breath pools over your skin, arousing you even further. The more he moves, the closer he gets, the more your heart begins to race. The scruff of his beard brushes up against your sodden lips. The course hairs are an unlikely turn on. They tickles every point of contact. You whimper above him, clamping your hand over your mouth. Your breasts are left bare.  

He hesitates and looks up at you. His eyes linger on the delicate swoop of your breasts, moving up to the peeks of your nipples. “Do you want me to stop?” 

But you shake your head and reach down, both hands burying into his tuff of hair. 

“No,” you affirm. “Keep going.”

His eyes go wide, brightening even under the hazy amber glow of the setting sun beyond his window. He smiles and breathes in deeply, inhaling your aroma.

“Good, because I don’t want to stop,” he says. “You taste so fucking good.”

Suddenly, his lips meet fully with your exposed sex. You gasp in surprise but the sound quickly becomes encouragement. He glides his tongue up through your folds in one fell swoop, moaning in appreciation of your unique flavor. Your knees buckle against the sides of his head. Your legs tremble slightly. Never before has a man spent so much time and attention toward assuring your pleasure. And here now is Bucky, your step brother turned lover, doing just that and more. As if he meant to drown in your love. You throw your head back, pushing him down further into you with the force of your hands upon his head. You rock your hips in time with his movements, up and down. A subconscious urge taking over. Instinctual. 

He sucks on your needy clit, leaving you breathless and wanton. His tongue swirls around your bud, and you feel it: that building pressure of release flooding down into your lower abdomen. And just as he said, he doesn’t stop, even as you beg for him to slow down. Your pleas go unheard, woven around much louder words of nonsensical devotion. But when, once more,  you arch your hips to meet him, you feel the warmth of his fingers replace the fullness of his mouth. With two fingers, he spreads you out wide for further exploration. 

“Bucky!” Your clutch tightens upon his scalp, halting his progression in satisfying you. 

“What? Is my mouth that good?” He asks with a cocky smile. He licks his lips for emphasis. They shimmer with your residual sleek. 

“It’s just...” You swallow hard. “Use your other hand.”

Bucky’s mouth slacks open as his eyebrows arch in disbelief. He takes a moment to study your expression, searching for deceit. But finding none, his lips curl into an appreciative smile. 

“What did I do to deserve you?”

He exhales slowly, shifts, and moves his metal hand up to meet you. Just as you’ve requested. He kisses you once more before slowly, carefully, he plunges one cold finger inside your warm sex. You bite back a moan. The feeling is odd, but certainly not unwelcome. What his fingers lack in warmth, they make up for in their smooth texture. In the cool contrast of temperature, rubbing up against the heat of your inner walls. He curls his fingers inside of you, finding the point of your weakness. It doesn’t take long for the sounds of arousal to come slouching back and forth against each movement of his hand. 

“Cum for me, doll,” he commands in a husky voice, laden with desire. “Do it.”

“I... I can’t,” you moan. You buckle your knees together. 

“Just let go.” A second finger joins the first, coaxing you toward delivery. “Give me everything.”

You reach for his other hand blindly in the darkness of your hazy vision. As his fingers move at an unforgiving pace, pushing you over the edge into oblivion, you finally do as he commands. Your pussy clenches down hard upon his fingers. You scream your release into the heavens. With your fingers interlace with his, you allow yourself time to savor the throbbing residuals of your orgasm. You hold tight to him and wait for your heart to settle, for your mind to float back down to earth. 

The sky has turned dim, dark behind his sheer curtains. The sun has descended beyond view and distant planets litter the sky. It is a signal of lost time. Of your opportunity come and gone to return to The Inkwell. But those papers could wait for another day. Bucky is set on allowing you the luxury of leisure, letting you recover at your own speed. He will let you wait until dawn if that’s what you require. But when he does pull away, leaving his hand upon your thigh, you move into action. 

Your eyes flutter open and you stare at him with a sudden longing to return the favor. You reach down, to where you can see the clear evidence of his own arousal, stiff beneath his jeans. But he is quick to catch your wrist. 

“This isn’t about me tonight,” he says firmly. His grasp relaxes. His thumb smooths over your pulse point. “There will be plenty of time for that later. Like you said.” 

He kisses your wrist, moving higher between your legs. He positions them up around his waist as he leans into you. He is still clothed enough to keep temptation at a minimum. 

“You make the most beautiful expression when you cum,” he murmurs. “I wondered what you looked like right before I found you. After you moaned my name...” He lazily glides his fingers along your sides. “You wanted me to come find you, didn’t you?”

You pull away, embarrassed. 

“Do you do that for all the women you sleep with?” You ask in a whisper; his question left unanswered. You move your hand to the side of his face to stroke his chin affectionately. 

“Never,” he admits as he leans into your touch. “Only when I truly care about someone.”  You don’t quite believe him. Not with the skill he possessed. But you’ll believe his lie for now, allowing yourself the ignorance of his love. The misguided assumption that you might be his only conquest. He certainly wasn’t yours.  

As you smooth your fingers align his jawline, you laugh, noting the way the course hairs upon his face are decorated with the delicate beads of wetness. 

“I made a mess of your beard,” you comment with a drunken smile.  You rub your fingers together, sticky with the gathered residue once held to his chin.

“Maybe I should shave it off,” he ponders. He reaches up to scrub the side of his cheek. 

“Don’t you dare!”

He laughs and falls down heavy upon your lap. Even while the apex of your thighs ache from his previous attention, you let him stay there. You let him kiss your bellybutton softly and play with the hair that has fallen over your shoulders, resting upon your breasts. He glides a metal finger across the nipple, hardening it further. 

“So... are you still going to go on that date with Steve?”

You gape down at him. “What? Of course not! Not now that I’m your...” You stop yourself. His what exactly? You can’t think of a suiting label. Not one that accurately describes what you two have created here tonight. It doesn’t feel right to restrict what you are within the confines of an archaic title. It feels artificial somehow.

Bucky, sensing your inner turmoil, holds your chin in his hand and smiles. “You’re my what?” He prods. “Come on. You can say it. It’s all out in the open now.”

“I’m still not sure what I am to you, Bucky,” you admit in shame. He blinks once before his frozen expression cracks, revealing a sweet, understanding smile. 

“You’re my girl,” he tells you outright. 

You pull him up higher, so that you are resting, chest to chest. You reach your arms around him and hold him close, needing nothing more than the sympathy of his heart to soothe the ache of your own. You let your subsequent tears coat his pectoral muscles, flexed against your cheek.  

There would be plenty of time, he said. Plenty of time to live out moments far overdue. Plenty of time to be what you desire, to give and take as you need from one another. But also, plenty of time to worry and dread over potential consequences. Over the judgment of your mother and the loss of a father. But here, in Bucky’s arms, you let your fears become just a distance din, drowned out by the overwhelming power of the acceptance between you both. 

Bucky kisses your forehead, before you nuzzle into his shoulder. You smile, giddy, against his skin now salty with sweat.  

“It wasn’t Brad, was it?” He asks suddenly as he strokes your back. 

“Hm?” You close your eyes. You’ve forgotten all about the papers left unfinished at The Inkwell. You’ve forgotten about Penny and her apparent betrayal of your trust. And you’ve long since forgotten the prospect of dating Steve. 

“The man who took your virginity,” Bucky clarifies. “Was it him? The thought of that asshole being your first makes me sick...”

You shift slightly. “No, he wasn’t.”

“Who then?” 

You peer up at him. But he doesn’t return your gaze. Instead, he looks down at your bare form, lost in your curves and edges. 

“Why are you so interested in who it was all of a sudden?” You ask nervously. “It’s not like he matters now. It was a high school boyfriend. Hank was his name. He is married now from what I’ve heard. Are you jealous or something?”

“No.” A blunt response.

“Who was your first then?” You ask with a coy smirk. “Since we are on the subject...”

“Natasha,” he answers quickly. Too quickly. 

_Natasha. Nat._ You think you know that name from somewhere when suddenly it dawns on you. “That woman you meant to meet the other night,” you realize. “She was your first?”

His eyebrow arches as he smirks down at you. “It’s not like she matters now,” he repeats, mockingly. But when you only respond with a grunt and the growing rouse of your cheeks, he pulls you closer, laughing. “You don’t need to worry about her. We are just good friends now, nothing more.”

You hide your face against his chest, jealousy still hot upon your cheeks. But with the soothing caress of his hands against your skin, he reassures you once again, saying, “You’re my girl.” It’s enough of a promise to lull you both into dreamless slumber. 

When morning comes, you find yourself tangled amongst the silken sheets. But Bucky is missing within them, the bed otherwise empty. He must have been called into work. It isn’t unusual. Even on a Sunday. But you had hoped to wake by his side. To see him resting peaceful in your arms. To kiss him awake. 

You stir and tiptoe out into the kitchen. You are still naked, with a dull ache in your pelvis. The reminder of his metal grip. Once in the kitchen, you find one of Bucky’s many usual notes, left for you in the absence of actual speech. This is how you’d communicated in the past, during those brief months of living together. When you’d been more strangers than family. You spoke through post-it’s, pen to paper, or the occasional text. But nothing more. Nothing until last night, when pillow talk suddenly became the new norm. 

Beside the note is coffee and a pastry from The Cozy Cup Cafe. Chocolate, your favorite. 

“Good morning beautiful,” the note reads. Plain and simple. But the words make your heart palpitate. You bring your fingertips up to your lips, reminiscing on the previous night. Smiling, you take a quick bite of the pastry and make your way back to your room to get dressed. But you stop in front of the hallway mirror. Your eyes dance over every inch of exposed flesh. You don’t look any different. Your reflection is remarkably the same. But you feel altered, changed. As if finally being with Bucky, in any capacity beyond the standard, has made you something else entirely. 

And just as Bucky said, it doesn’t quite seem real.

Moments later, as you sit at the kitchen table, picking off the buttery crumbs left on your plate, there is a knock on the door. Not expecting anyone so early in the day, you are surprised to find Steve on the other side. He looks flushed with a wide, handsome smile set upon his face.  

“Hey,” he says in greeting. “I heard you may need a ride.”

You brush off a rogue crumb from the corner of your mouth. “You did?”

“Yea, Buck called me on his way into work. Something about papers you needed to sign.”

You step aside to let him in. “He didn’t need to do that... I can just take the bus.” Leave it to Bucky to make sure you are well looked after, even in his absence. But to bring Steve here...is this a test to your fidelity? Your commitment toward fulfilling this sinful desire? It’s as if he were dangling Steve in front of you like a potential boon. _Take him,_ he seems to say. _He's all yours._

The memory of last night’s revelation is still fresh in your mind. The recall crisp and clear, lingering at the edge of every waking thought. This isn’t the time to be contemplating Steve’s place in all this. He has no place in our heart. He is a stranger, who merely asked you out in a date. You only want one man, and he has long since left the condo, leaving behind a simple note and his touch still imprinted upon your skin. 

“It’s no trouble at all,” Steve reassures. You blink up at him, chasing your paranoia to silence. “I have some things I have to do downtown anyway. It’s practically on my way. “

“Steve, if you have plans, you don’t have to do this for me,” you mutter.

“It’s a Sunday. Professors have no lives on the weekends,” he replies. That’s right. He is a professor. History, you recall. Bucky mentioned it once or twice. “I’m all yours,” he adds with a charming grin.

Your eyes widen as you stare at his lips. Not sly or cohesive as Bucky’s had been last night. His smile is sweet, unassuming. You find yourself blushing once more, despite your insistence toward ignorance. Steve is the no strings attached sort of love interest you should be pursuing. If you were of sound mind, you’d disregard any attachment to Bucky right here and now and opt for a more traditional approach to romance. But normal is no longer an option. Your heart decided for you long ago. 

“Just call me your personal chauffeur,” Steve adds, laughing lightly to ease the tension, held so carefully between the doorway. “I’ll take any excuse I can to see you.”

You tuck a lock of stray hair behind your ear and take a step back toward your bedroom. You place your hand upon your cheek. It’s unbearably warm.  “Let me just grab my bag.”

You aren’t gone more than five minutes, but when you return, you find Steve at the kitchen table, the pink post-it held between his fingertips. He stares down at Bucky’s message with a narrowed gaze. As if he is trying to uncover a hidden agenda within each letter. You try not to overthink it. It’s not unusual to be called beautiful by a family member. Or is it? You can’t be sure of what normal is anymore. 

“All set,” you announce. Steve drops the note swiftly, as if it were hot to the touch. He turns to look at you, nervously shoving his hands into the depths of his pockets. He smiles again, but it seems forced this time. 

Once in his car, he drives in silence, letting you become lost in your own mind as you stare out the window at the cityscape rolling past. The day is foggy, a leftover haze from the rain of yesterday. But you feel warm, as if a heat within your chest burns all on its own. 

_I can smell how wet you are. I want to taste you._

You shift your legs, crossing them over each other and squeezing hard. The pressure is hardly enough to ease the throbbing that resonates from deep within your core. But you are distracted when your phone vibrates in your pocket, the sensation traveling unexpectedly lower. You yelp, diverting Steve’s attention from the road momentarily. 

“Everything ok?”

But when you go to reach for it, you immediately hesitate. Your hand shakes, clutched around the mess of metal and glass. Even while you ignore each call one after the other, as your phone rings and rings, the caller persists. _Penny_ persists. Eventually, she resorts to text.

“What’s wrong? Why won’t you talk to me?”

_What’s wrong?_ You’ve asked yourself that same question time and time again, but in different context. _What’s wrong with me?_

You immediately turn off your phone, throwing it into your bag, discarded. You couldn’t face her. You might never be able to. Your reaction had been unexplainable as a sister. But it made perfect sense as his soon to be lover. Pure, undulated jealousy. A feeling so familiar; a lump in your throat, even now. 

“Steve,” you say suddenly. He turns his attention away from the road, if only for a moment. To show that you have his attention. “Do you know a woman named Natasha?”

His lips curl slightly. “Did Bucky tell you about her?”

“Not really.” You shift in your seat. Why do you suddenly feel so inferior, so inadequate? As if you may never measure up to all the beautiful women Bucky had lured into his bed before you’d been laid upon it. His little sister. Just another girl. Not a woman. “Who is she?” 

“We went to school together.” Steve’s voice breaks through the roar of your inner turmoil. “Enlisted together right after graduation.” You stare at him with pursed lips, encouraging him to go on. “Nat works in DC now. Some government job with high security clearance. She really made a name for herself.” He laughs softly. A sound that is so strangely soothing. “While Buck and I... well, we didn’t.” 

“I think you’re doing alright,” you say, lips curled just at the edge. “You don’t need to be a top secret agent to be important, you know.”

Steve gives you an appreciative smile before turning his attention back to the road. 

“Thank you,” he says softly. “Nice to know someone thinks so.”

“And she and Buck,” you go on. “Were they... together?”

Steve looks surprised. “No. Why do you think that?”

Your hands go slick with sweat but you are quick to tuck them underneath your legs. You slouch forward in your seat. “It’s nothing. Sorry I’m being so inquisitive.”

“It’s okay.” Steve turns, parks the car and waits. You sit in silence before you remember how to move. You reach for the door and as you are stepping out of the car, you also remember how to speak. “Thank you for the ride, Steve,” you say. 

“When you are done filling out your paperwork, why don’t I take you out for lunch?”

Your hand is still held to the car door. Bucky has given you plenty of reason to be jealous. First, the slough of nameless women who came and went in the dead of night. Then Natasha, a fellow soldier and secret love interest. And finally Penny, a much more painful betrayal. Maybe Bucky needs to have a taste of that same sort of envy. To know what it’s like to see the one you desire the most pursued by other potential suitors. To know you aren’t so free for the taking.

He would have to prove his love. Just as you would.  

“I’ll meet you back here in thirty minutes.” Steve waves goodbye but waits, watching until you’ve made it safely into the building. Once you are on the other side of the sliding glass doors, he drives off down the road.

“Boyfriend?”

You turn and make eye contact with a tall woman, made even taller by her black pumps. She smiles are you behind her clipboard. 

“I’m Pepper Potts, head of the HR department,” she states, extending her hand in greeting. You reply with your own name. 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you argue nervously. You are sure it doesn’t sound very convincing. But she smiles regardless and leads you back into her office. Your paperwork is already spread out upon her desk, awaiting your John Hancock. 

“You’ll be able to start tomorrow,” Pepper announces happily. You swirl your wrist, already gone stiff from the few signatures you’ve signed. 

“What is all of this anyway?” You do not read any of the fine print. You would take the job even if it included a clause for human sacrifice; that’s just how desperate you are for this job. For the start of your career.

“Its a standard NDA,” she explains. “A lot of different manuscripts make their rounds through our company. The knowledge of which is required to stay within this building.  Exclusively.”

You nod in understanding. 

“Looks like we do not have an emergency contact listed for you,” Pepper realizes as she types away on her computer. “Should I put your not-boyfriend down?” She winks, smiling sweetly.

You wave your hand at her in protest. “You can put down James Barnes. He goes by Bucky.”

“Relation?”

“My... stepbrother.” You stumble over the word. “We live together.”

She nods and adds the appropriate information. When you’ve reached he end of your stack of papers, she leans over the desk and gives your hand a warm shake. “Welcome to The Inkwell.”

Steve is outside waiting for you as you exit the building. It’s as if he never left. But you note a few bags in the backseat, from varying department stores. His errands, you assume. 

“Do you like Italian food?” He asks. His expression is beaming, simmering with a contagious energy. You are swept up into it immediately, lost in the crystalline blue of his eyes. You nod enthusiastically, stomach growling unapologetically. He takes you to a small, hole in the wall establishment, Nona’s. The kind you know has to be good. Family owned and operated. Nona, you soon realize, is the head chef, and grandmother to every waiter and hostess in the tiny establishment. Steve seems to know the owner personally, shaking his hand as you enter the restaurant. There are a few other patrons but it’s otherwise quiet. It feels private. 

Steve orders you both glasses of red wine, which end up being on the house for “the Captain and his lady friend.”

“The Captain?” You ask with a coy smile. 

Steve blushes, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. “My rank in the military.”

“That’s impressive, Steve!” You exclaim. “You could have made a career out of that. Why did you retire?”

“There is only so much war you can witness before you become numb to it all,” he says, eyes downcast, set upon his open menu. “I didn’t want to lose my sense of morality.”

Blinking, you reach for your drink, needing the liquid courage to continue any sort of conversation. Your phone vibrates at your side. Convinced it is Penny once again, you chose to ignore it. Until you subconsciously glance down and see the text has come from someone else entirely. Someone who rarely texts you at all.

_Having fun with little Stevie?_

You smile, reaching for the phone to reply. Steve doesn’t seem to notice, flipping through his menu, studying each item carefully. As if he too needed a distraction from the turn of your conversation.

_So much fun_ , you type. _Why? Do you miss me?_ You hesitate to send it. Your thumb hovers over the virtual button. But you bite your lip and press down, watching as it sits in limbo, unread.

It takes Bucky no more than few seconds to read your message and draft a reply. 

_I always miss you_ , he sends back. _I’m thinking about what I want to do to you when I get home._

You shift in your seat, thighs pressed tightly together. 

_And what’s that?_ You dare to ask.

_I want to fuck you on every surface of our condo. That’s what._

All blood rushes to your brain, heating your cheeks to an unreasonable hue of darkened desire. You glance up at Steve. But still, he isn’t paying attention, ignorant to your behavior. To the flirtation occurring virtually between you and a forbidden opponent, his best friend. 

You and Bucky have danced around each other for the entirety of a year, avoiding all contact that would lead to the fulfillment of your truest desires. But the flood gates have been opened. There is no going back. And he knows it. He is testing you. Another boon held out for the taking. 

_Take me. I’m yours._

You text a reply. You stare down at it as you chew on your lip, frozen by fear and the potential chaos your response could unearth from the former military man. But despite your trepidation, you hit send, close your eyes and throw your phone back into your purse. 

_Maybe I won’t come home tonight._

“Have you decided on what you’d like?” The waiter asks suddenly. You and Steve look up instantly, your eyes catching from opposite ends of the small, metal table. 

“The spaghetti bolognese,” you echo one another. Laughing, you kick Steve under the table. “Can’t you be original?” You tease.

“I could say the same for you, copycat!” 

You let yourself become distracted by Steve’s company. Your hands are still shaking, folded upon your lip. But you chase the thought of Bucky from your mind. And as your food arrived, you laugh between mouthfuls of twin meals and sips of red wine. And when he speaks, you listen, leaning forward, enraptured by the simple sound of his voice. He is easy to get along with, and even easier to fall for. _I could love you_ , you tell yourself. _This makes sense, doesn’t it?_ And as the evening goes on, Bucky fades into distance memory. Not until your stumble back to Steve’s car, with a full belly and a slightly buzzed disposition. You are all giggles and smiles. The perfect picture of a date gone well. And perhaps you wouldn’t go home, not with the way Steve’s hand rests on your knee during the drive back. The way his fingers slightly, but courteously, rub against your skin. His cologne is a suffocatingly sweet seduction, pluming around you in the tight space of his car. He is everything you could want. Everything you should. But he isn’t who you desire. His name isn’t carved into your soul. No. That right belongs to another.

Your phone buzzes, and caught in the haze of laughter, you reach for it. The brightness of the screen nearly blinds you against the fading light of day surrounding the car. And when you read the text, you know there is no hope for Steve. There never was. 

_You are just asking to be punished. Aren’t you, little sister?_


	7. A Belt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My husband just discovered I started writing fan fiction again, which he affectionately refers to as “50 Shades of Loki.” Speaking of... if you are interested in a Bucky version of that, go check out MimiWritesHerFandoms’ “50 Shades of Bucky” :) #writerspromotingwriters

It’s the first time he has ever called you that. _Little sister._ It awakens something inside of you, something dark and forbidden. Something screaming out in victory for having claimed the final remnants of your sanity. This is a sin you will gladly commit. You will walk freely into the raging fires of hell in exchange for another night with Bucky. For another night with your _big brother_ and his promises of punishment. Your heart begins to race with anticipation.  

 _What is wrong with me?_  

“Am I just dropping you off back at the condo?”

You stiffen and turn back to face Steve. You’ve forgotten where you are, who you are with. You fumble to lock your phone, as if he may be able to read the text displayed in your hand. There is an unspoken question laced beneath Steve’s words that startles you. _Am I taking you home with me?_  

“Yea, I really should be getting back.” You swallow down the guilt you feel rising up in your throat. The guilt for having strung Steve along. For giving him hope that this could have lead to something more between you. One sin after the next. Lies and deceit leaving your lips like sugar coated symphonies.  

“Sure thing,” Steve replies, though he can’t quite hide the disappointment that flashes across his chiseled, tightened jawline. He pulls up in front of the complex and puts the car in neutral.

“Thank you for today,” you say as you unbuckle your seat belt. You look over at him but his face is held forward. His eyes are darkened by thoughts you can almost see swirling through his mind. Storm clouds brewing on the horizon. To break him from his concentration, you lean toward his seat and press your lips gently to his cheek. Your touch lingers for a moment too long before you pull away. He begins to blush, a few fingertips held to the point of contact. You realize all too late that the gesture may not have been received as the friendly goodbye you’d hoped for. But as a promise for another day. 

“Steve, you should know that I like you but I....” 

“You like someone else?”

You exhale, blinking as Steve turns toward you, smiling. There is something in his expression you can’t quite decipher. Something akin to concern, though his words send another message. 

“I do,” you confirm. “It only just happened recently. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I wasn’t sure how to...”

“Hey, don’t apologize,” he says firmly. His expression has tilted toward a more neutral disposition. “I’m happy with the way things are.” He laughs lightly, adding, “You know...Bucky was right about you.” 

“What did he say?” You ask with wide eyes.

“It’s nothing ... he just... he really cares about you.” 

Dumbfounded by his response, you reach for the door handle and make to step out of the car, but Steve stops you, grabbing hold of your wrist. You turn back to face him.

“Before you go...I got you something.” 

He reaches into the backseat and pulls out an item from one of the many paper bags lining the floor. He presents it to you. It’s a notebook and pen, monogrammed with your initials. A custom design, not something randomly pulled off the shelves of a overstocked convenience store. This was personalized. Expensive.  

“For your first day,” he explains with a gentle smile. “Maybe it will bring you good luck.”

“Thank you, Steve.” You brush your hand over the leather binding. “Truly. Thank you. I don’t... I am not sure I deserve this.”

“You do,” he says with a knowing look. “Just keep making Buck happy.”

He is still staring off after you as you stand on the sidewalk, weakly offering him a wave goodbye. As you watch him go, you feel the tightness in your chest grow with each meter of added distance between you. _Just keep making Buck happy._

You take your time getting back up to the condo, using the stairs instead of the elevator. Your movement is purposefully slow, in order to give yourself time to reflect. To collect the shambled remains of your dignity before facing Bucky. He would be home by now. He would be waiting. 

You insert your key, turn the doorknob, and carefully push the door open. The condo is dark. Not a single light is on inside. But it is almost too quiet, unnaturally so. As if all sound has been completely snuffed out by an external source. _Maybe he isn’t home yet_.

You slide inside, dropping your bag at the door and the notebook upon the table. As you begin to walk toward your bedroom, you notice a figure sitting amongst the shadows in the living room. His face is cast in darkness, but from what you can make out through the remaining tendrils of evening light, you see that his chest is bare. His hands are gripped to something in his lap, atop his legs spread out wide across the chair. It is a belt, pulled taut in his grasp. It snaps with the jerk of his hand. You yelp in surprise.

“Bucky?” You call out meekly. You reach for the light switch but his sharp command halts all further movement. “Leave it off.”

You stand frozen, willing your eyes to adjust to the darkness. But when they do, you catch the glint of metal from the belt buckle, just before he snaps it once again. 

“Do you have any idea what went through my mind while you were with him?” 

You move forward toward him, your feet like lead, your heart moving up your throat with each loud thump.  

“What do you mean?” You ask in a whimper.   

“After you said you wouldn’t go out with him, you went ahead and did it anyway,” he snarls. “Do you want to spend the night with him? Instead of with me?” 

He sits up from the chair and walks toward you. You take a few steps back, defensively, until you make contact with a wall. Bucky continues his approach, like an animal stalking its prey. Your palms press firmly against the concrete slab behind you. 

“You were the one who sent him here,” you argue. “I wouldn’t have gone out with him today if you hadn’t done that.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” The belt snaps. “Did you just humor him to get under my skin? Is that it?”

Suddenly, a new sensation lifts up over your skin, clawing it’s way into your lungs like a thick sludge. It fills your heart with a renewed sense of longing, of desire. A desire to bring Bucky to the edge of chaos with you. To dance with the devil. 

“Are you jealous, Bucky?” You feel power surging at your fingertips. You stand taller, keeping your head inclined toward him as he continues his approach. “Do you want me all to yourself?” 

“Damn right I do.” 

Suddenly, Bucky presses hard into you. His lips come crashing down upon yours, silencing any further argument. You welcome him in, giving him what he needs, your tongue sliding across his own. There is an undeniable hunger in each move of his lips, in each thrust of his hips toward your pelvis. You whimper into his mouth. With one hand, he pins you in against the wall, his clutch tight around your throat. But it is not constricting. You feel secure, as if it were a hold of ownership. _You are mine_ , he seems to say. And if you weren’t muted by his kiss, you’d scream in reply, “I’m yours!” Though, your actions speak louder than words could ever profess. 

His other hand is still gripped to the belt, which slides and scraps against the floor as he moves to meet you. He doesn’t let it go, even as he goes to grab the back of your head to deepen the kiss. Punishment would come, you remind yourself. But you could both use the distraction for now. The distraction of need, held in his heated breath, in your whimpered surrender. 

His knee wedges up between your legs, pushing higher, adding a needed pressure to your core. Your hands immediately go to his chest. You shove against him with enough force to break the kiss momentarily. You gasp for air; Bucky does the same. 

“I’m sorry about Steve,” you whisper.

“As your big brother, I should take priority,” he growls, exasperated. 

“You do,” you moan, his hand still at your neck. “I’m sorry....” 

“You should be,” he replies. He leans into you, until his lips are curved around your ear. And in a much harsher voice, he commands, “Turn around.” 

Your eyes widen, fear taking hold, but you do as he’s asked. You turn your back to him, your palms and chest placed to the wall. You turn your head to the side so that your cheek is pressed into the grain of paint. That cold silence returns, accompanied only by the sound of your shallow breathing. Until you hear Bucky’s sharp intake of air. He reaches forward and pushes your dress up over your hips, and with a solid yank, pulls your panties down, until they rest around your ankles, useless. It leaves your ass exposed to him and his potential games. You gasp but instinctively push back toward his touch.  

“Bucky...” you plea in a soft moan.  

He traces his fresh fingertips in circles across the globes of your ass in a painfully slow rhythm. “I’m going to spank you,” he whispers as a warning. “Four times. And I want you to count for me. Do you understand?” 

You swallow hard and turn slightly to look at him. The belt is extended in his right hand, as if readying for impact. You feel frozen between fear and arousal. 

“Do you understand?” He repeats sharply, teeth gritted together. But you realize, more than anything, he is asking for permission. For your acceptance to explore this forbidden unknown with him. With your brother. 

“Yes,” you reply as you turn back to face the wall. Your legs begin to tremble. “Yes,” you say again, with more conviction.  

The wait is maddening as he paces behind you. As he stands at a distance, studying the way you are presented for him. The way you are putting blind faith into his judgement. You release a sigh, but the anxiety remains. And just when you think you may not be able to handle another second longer, the belt snaps against your exposed flesh. You jerk forward, gasping at the sharp sting of its impact. Bucky waits. 

“One,” You announce in a soft whisper. Your hands cave into fists. 

The second time comes with much more force. It is quick, purposeful. You gasp and moan, “Two!”  

But it isn’t enough. “Louder!” He commands. “I need to hear you properly, little sister.” 

And when he hits you a third time, you are loud and clear. Your voice is a song of deliverance.  

“Three!”  

The pain begins to fade into numbing pleasure. The sting, that will surely turn to welts upon your skin, is oddly a welcome sensation. It is physical manifestation of your sins, come to the surface. You deserve his punishment. You deserve the judgement of his will. You want everything he is willing to give you. Both pain and pleasure. 

The fourth and final impact is as cruel and unforgiving as the rest. But you scream its completion into the heavens, feeling the trail of your wetness trickling down your parted legs. There are tears in your eyes. You blink them away, letting them trickle down your cheeks in an echoed reminder of your sweet arousal. You try to settle your heart. Your breathing is erratic. Behind you, Bucky is breathing just as heavily through grunts and moans. You turn once more to look it him, your eyes brimming with renewed desire, fogged by residual tears. You reach back a hand to feel your flesh, to caress the raised skin left in the wake of his spanking. You trace a finger over each welt, four in total. When you pull your hand away, there is a soft hue of red left upon your fingertips. Blood brought to the surface by his violence. You stare at Bucky, your hand shaking. His own hands are in fists, still gripped to the object of your punishment. His eyes are hooded, dark like the depths of the ocean, without a single beam of light.

His expression seems pained, as if remorseful. Had the outburst triggered something within him? Memories long forgotten? Days of death and violence from which he could not escape? You let your gaze drift over the sharp edges of his hips, dipping down like guiding lines toward his pelvis. There, you see his hardened length pressing urgently against his jeans. Even if he felt regretful, he is just as equally aroused as you are. 

The impact of submission made you feel wanted, truly desired for first time in your lonesome life. And you would not allow guilt to get the better of either of you. Not now. You’ve come too far to turn back.

You remember the words that were once a taunt across your mind. _What’s wrong with me?_ But nothing about being with Bucky is wrong _. This is right where I’m meant to be._  

You kick your discarded panties to the side and turn to face him fully, pressing your back into the wall. The cool surface serves as a tender caress against your reddened fresh. You reach up, daring to touch the side of his face, but he jerks away, threatening to leave you there, alone. You grip tight to his arm to halt his escape. 

“Doll, please,” he hisses. The muscle beneath your grip goes taut with tension. “I shouldn’t have done that. I took this too far. I...”

“Look at me,” you say firmly. You stroke his skin, stepping closer until your chest is pressed to his. His eyes widen, his dark facade wavering for just a moment. You grasp at the brief opportunity that’s presented itself. 

“I want this,” you affirm. You guide his hand between your legs, so he can feel how wet he’s made you. “I don’t want to stop.” 

He whispers your name as his eyes follow your every motion. Carefully, you lower yourself down onto your knees before him. You rest back against your heels with a wince. Your ass is still raw from his lashings but the pain is a reminder of the strength of Bucky’s need. Your hands glide over his legs as you descend, brushing across his stiff member. He groans, head thrown back. He lifts his fingers to his lips, enhaling your aroma before resting them upon his extended tongue. To taste you. To savor the way he makes you feel. 

You unzip his jeans, pulling them down slightly to allow for enough room for your hand to slide underneath. Your hand wraps around his length, freeing him from the confines of his pants. It is the first time you’ve seen him, felt him. He is thick, decorated with heavy veins, and pulsating in your grasp. A small bead of wetness decorates the tip. He moans deeply upon contact with your hand. Your breath cascades over him; an exhale that causes his grip to tighten upon your scalp in a pure desperation for control. 

“You don’t want to do this,” he growls, but his hand pushes you further toward him in contradicting encouragement. You are so close you can smell the musk of his sex. 

“Don’t tell me what I want,” you argue, peering up at him as you begin to lazily stroke his cock. He grabs a fistful of your hair and relinquishes a needy moan as your mouth finally makes contact with the tip. A gentle kiss, nothing more. Not until your tongue flickers over the glistening pearl, lapping up his sticky arousal. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, thrusting toward your mouth. “I need to feel that pretty little mouth of yours around my cock.” His voice is a prayer. A plea for compliance. “God... I need it so bad.”

Weak to the sound of his desperation, you give him what he needs. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and listen with delight as he growls his satisfaction above you. Slowly, you take more of his sex into your mouth with the soft swirl of your tongue. He tastes of the ocean, of the spray of salt and the untamed power brewing beyond its shores. You push him in further toward your throat. Your own moans become pleasant vibrations against his shaft. They bring him closer to the edge of release. As you move, up and down over his cock, you reach up to fondle his balls gently.  

“Where’d you learn how to suck cock like this, doll?” He groans. “You are... fuck... so good at it.”

You pull off of his cock with a _pop_ , smirking up at him mischievously. You decide to deny him any additional attention, running your hands up and down over his parted thighs. He would need to beg for it. 

“Better than all the women you’ve had over?” You ask as his cock bobs in the air in front of you. As if trying to coerce you back into submission. 

In one swift move, Bucky brings the belt around your neck. He secures it through the buckle and pulls it tight until it is flesh with your throat. He wraps the remaining cord around his fist and pulls. You fumble forward and gasp as you are yanked back toward his cock. It smacks against your mouth.

“Did I say you could stop?” He snarls, alarming you. But as you lean back to look at him, you realize his expression is much softer than his voice would have you believe. Far less domineering. “I need you. Please. Don’t stop,” his eyes seem to say instead. 

Controlled by the constraint of the belt, you take him back into your mouth. You choke slightly against him as his hand pulls back and the leather tightens around your neck. Like a leash, he controls your every movements. He silently tells you how fast to move, and when to stop. Occasionally, he groans encouragement above you. ”Yes, just like that,” he says. Or, “I’ve always wanted to fuck your mouth like this.” 

And as if to show you just how true that statement is, he yanks hard on the belt until you are forced to take all of him back into your throat. You moan in surprise, but your reaction only encourages him further. He holds you steady as he grunts loudly, and releases himself into you. The warmth of his cum pours down your throat in several spurts. You fight the urge to gag, swallowing everything. When he reaches completion, he drops the belt. You pull off of his cock slowly. It falls limp before you, thoroughly satisfied. A trickle of cum escapes from the corner of your mouth. You are quick to lick it clean.  

Bucky reaches out and pulls you gently to your feet. You tilt your head up as he carefully unfastened the belt. It cascades to the floor beside you. Relieved, you breathe in deeply, savoring the salty flavor left upon your tongue. He rubs his hands over your neck and massages your tender muscles. You must have been graced with more markings. A solid ring around your neck, painted upon flushed skin. 

“I can’t control myself with you,” he whispers apologetically. He kisses the spot his fingers have left behind. He leans his weight fully into you. Forced to avoid toppling backward, you grip tight to his back to hold you both steady. You glide your nails down his spine in slow, tender strokes. “There are so many things I want to do to you, to your tight little body,” he groans. “I want to hurt you. I want to make you cum. I want to watch you surrender yourself to me completely. I want...”

He stops himself as he rests his head upon your shoulder. He leaves his lips gently upon your collarbone. “This isn’t normal,” he whispers into your skin. “None of this is.” 

“So?”

Your response causes Bucky to look up at you. You caress his face affectionately. “It’s our normal,” you reassure. “It’s what makes sense for you and I.” It’s as if your subconscious is speaking. Not even a few hours earlier, you’d questioned your sanity. And yet here you are, embracing the absurdity of such a relationship. Embracing it with open arms of acceptance. You are now the voice of reason; a role reversal. You thread your fingers through his hair. Bucky’s hand falls down upon your breast with a sigh, kneading slowly into your tender flesh. “I’m happy,” you tell him as you bite back a moan. “I’m happy when I’m with you...Aren’t you?”

He stands taller, taking your chin in his grasp. You part your lips in anticipation. “I’ve never been happier,” he tells you before kissing you gently. He moves only slightly against you before he pulls away, a smirk held to his lips. “You’re the best sister I could have ever asked for.”

You push back against his chest, hot with embarrassment. “Don’t say stuff like that,” you mutter, turning away. 

But he laughs and pulls you into him, despite your resistance. “Oh come on, don’t lie to me now. We are way past that.” His lips caress your tender neck as he whispers, “Admit it. It turns you on.”

“It does not...” you lie. Your face reddens further. You squirm against his hold but he is resilient. 

“Why? There’s no harm it in. There’s no blood between us. Like you said, this is our normal. We decide what we should and shouldn’t do.” He kisses behind your ear to tease you even further. You dig your nails into his shoulder in protest. “Say it. Say you want your big brother to fuck you.”

“Bucky!” You gasp and shove hard against him. Laughing, he finally lets you go. You fumbled back, arms held over your chest. He reaches down and pulls his pants up, zipping them back into place. 

“I’ll get you to admit it eventually,” he says with a determined wink. “But for now, it’s late. You have work in the morning.” He rests his hand upon your scalp and leans in to gently place a kiss upon your forehead. “You need to get your rest if you’re going to make a good first impression.”

You blink up at him as he pats your head once more before walking past you and threatening to disappear into his room without another word.

“Bucky, wait!”

As he turns to look at you, gleaming with pride, you shift your weight between your feet nervously. “Can I... sleep with you tonight?”

His eyes widen, forcing you to clarify. “I mean... can I sleep in your bed tonight?” 

“Spoken like a true little sister,” he teases with a smirk.

“I’m serious! I... I’ve never slept as well as I did last night.”

It’s his turn to blush. The dark hue spreads over his chest. But his nervous expression cracks into a charming smile as he extends his hand to you. You gladly take it.

“Come on, doll. Let’s go to bed.”


	8. A New Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys. It’s been quite a month. I’m so sorry for having been gone so long! Work, as always, is very creatively demanding. But I’ve been wanting to return to this story for sometime so I hope this wets your appetite! 
> 
> I will likely be out of sorts during November as I will be focusing my efforts on nanowrimo with my original content. Wish me luck and enjoy the new chapter!

You are still in the midst of a dream when the waking world comes to claim you. It is the kind of dream from which you hardly want to wake. In that world, you are safe from judgment. Safe from harm. In that world, your love could be set free. But in the waking world, fear takes hold.

As you blink into consciousness, the hazy edges of sleep leave you feeling disoriented and forlorn. You groan. And as you shift, you notice warmth upon your cheek, radiating from the slab of flesh beneath you. Bucky moans but does not stir. Subconsciously, he clings tighter to your waist and pulls you closer to his side. With your hand above his beating heart, the memory of last night surges forward. You feel as ashamed as you are grateful. Finally, you are where you were always meant to be. At Bucky’s side. Morale be damned, you tell yourself over and over. But the guilt remains.

You trace lines down the core of his chest, along the groves of his muscles, tight and bulging. Your touch shifts higher toward his arm where flesh meets metal. The crude scare tissue is pink and swollen. A mess of manufactured mobility. But his scars make him beautiful. He is alive. He is here. Death could not claim him.

You lean closer, daring to steal a kiss before he awakens, but halt as your phone rings on his nightstand. It triggers the end of ignorant bliss and the dawn of a new day. But still, the world around you seems brand new. You are a woman reborn overnight, with a new path laid out for you beyond the horizon. A path you would no longer fear and one you would not have to walk alone.

You attempt to pull away from Bucky as you reach for your phone, silencing it’s annoyance. But as you move, Bucky’s grip only tightens further. He pulls you back toward his chest. Wide eyed, you stare down at him. But his eyes remain closed as he nestles his head into your shoulder. Like a child coddling it’s mother.

“Bucky ...”

“Can we just... stay like this for a little while longer?” He murmurs against your neck. His voice is weak, miles away. Lost in a land of dreams and make believe. His limbs wrap around you like a kind of bondage made flesh. You reach out and brush his mop of hair away from his face. His soft features make him look so innocent. His plush lips and long lashes are an illusion held over the darkness within his heart. A darkness you’ve only seen as shadows hidden amongst the light.

“For a few minutes more,” you reply, as finally, you plant a needed kiss upon his forehead. “But I have to get to work. And so do you.”

“Just call in sick today.” He moves more as he awakens. His lips caress the back of your neck in a slow, tender kiss. His touch gradually turns toward hunger, teeth nibbling upon your flesh. “I’m afraid that if I let you go,” he begins in a murmur. “I’ll never be able to hold you like this again.”

You go stiff, your skin cold. For all your worrying, Bucky’s fears are just as palatable as your own. He is afraid of losing you just as much as you are afraid of losing him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bucky,” You whisper, holding your hands to the back of his neck. You leave tender strokes across his shoulders until he groans in satisfaction and continues the potential destruction of your neck. His teeth graze your skin. A moment longer and you would give in to all your mutual desires, letting the day fade into darkened recall. So, despite your longing, you turn and sit up, shifting your weight onto your bottom. You wince.

“Does it hurt?”

The belt. The welts that surely mark your skin are tender and sore. You nod meekly, embarrassed by your low tolerance for the painful aftermath. Last night, you’d been more inclined toward the pleasure of it. Where had that endurance gone?

“A little,” you admit in shame.

“Turn around. On your stomach,” he whispers. You are quick to obey, turning your face to the side to watch him. He shifts off the bed, still slow in his movements, groggy. He pulls open his nightstand drawer and retrieves a green plastic bottle. An unassuming lotion. He disappears beyond your vision, only to re-emerge behind you a moment later. His touch glides up your thighs, leaving prickled skin in his wake. With the gentle tug of his hand, he pulls your cotton panties down and out of the way. You blush but obey, shifting your legs to give him better leverage. You hiss between clenched teeth as a cold liquid is spread over each of your cheeks, in slow, careful strokes. The temperature becomes more manageable the more he moves and kneads into your round globes. It’s a sweet relief upon your heated flesh. You sigh in gratitude.

“I should have done this last night,” he says as a means of apology. “I let things get out of hand.”

You tense, your shoulders squaring beneath his caress. “Do you regret it?” You ask no louder than a prayer.

“No,” he replies firmly. “But if you do... if you want me to stop...” His hand lifts off the round curve of your legs.

You shift around to look at him. You reach out, as if on instinct, taking his artificial hand in yours. Lifting his fingers to your lips, you gently place a kiss upon the cool metal.

“Never,” you reassure, to yourself as much as to Bucky. “I could never regret being with you.”

His lips curve into a small smile. A sign of his relief. “Then take the day off,” he suggests again with a sly look. His eyes are dark. Mischievous. “I’d much rather stay in bed for the rest of the day and take care of you...”

His hand glides between your legs, fingertips brushing over your already wet mound. 

“But it’s my first day.” Reason speaks for you. But your cheeks are warm again. Your skin is still prickled by the contact of his hand. You stifle a moan as his fingers glide through the sheen of your desire. “You know that I have to go...” Your hands are trembling.

He pulls away in mild defeat. “I know,” he whispers, catching a quivering hand as you shift back around. You stick to the sheets by the cool aloe beneath you. “Are you nervous?”

Your heart is pounding; the rhythm echoed beneath your finger tips. But the job is not to blame. Regardless, you nod softly. He doesn’t need to know how much you fear not being good enough. Not being worth the risk of his reputation just to be with you. But he smiles in his ignorance, unaware and unalarmed. He reaches out and takes hold of your chin between his fingertips.

“You are going to be great,” he says reassuringly. His smile is warm and bright. Like you hope your future will be. 

“What if they don’t like me?” You mutter. The words hold paranoia and duel meaning.

“The damn bastards are lucky enough to spend all day with you,” Bucky practically snaps. “Even I don’t have that luxury.”

“Maybe this weekend,” you start but stop from saying anything more. _Am I being too forward? Too assuming? We should take this slow... we should..._

But before you can think any further, Bucky’s lips find yours. A swift kiss is laid upon your parted mouth, holding a gentle promise.

“This weekend,” he repeats with a smirk as he breaks the tender caress. His lips linger over yours, letting a warm cascade of his breath pool into your mouth. “You are mine.”

A shiver runs down your spine and refuses to leave you, even as you make your way toward your new office. The heat of summer hangs heavy on your shoulders and still, you feel a chill. But there are storm clouds on the horizon, keeping the sun at bay while the true tempest rages on within your heart.

_This weekend, you are mine._

_But what does it mean to be yours, Bucky?_

With his kiss now just a memory upon your flesh, you mindlessly drift through the on-boarding pleasantries of your new job. You say hello to your new superiors as you receive yet another tour of the office. But even as you settle in at your assigned desk, a small space overlooking the vast cityscape beyond the crystalline glass, you feel as if you are somewhere else. Back in your apartment maybe. Back in Bucky’s arms.

“First day, huh?”

The thick foreign accent immediately catches your attention. You must have been staring toward the horizon for far too long. The end of your pen is held between your teeth. The cap is a mess of salvia and gnawed plastic. You peer over your desk to the other side, where only a short partition is held for meager privacy. There, a red haired woman is smirking at you from around her monitor.

“That obvious?” You put down the pen, embarrassed as you wipe your cheek.

She laughs lightly, but the gesture seems friendly rather than mocking. She extends her hand over the low cubicle wall.

“Wanda,” she says in introduction. You do the same, taking her hand.

“I’m the intern,” she explains. “The first day was this boring for me too. So much protocol. Have they even set you up into the system yet?”

You shake your head, to which she immediately rounds the corner, coming to your side. 

“Let me. Or else you’ll be staring out that window until clock out.” She leans over your laptop, taking the initiative to do what your superiors had put off doing until now. “And trust me, there’s nothing out there but gray buildings. Though, Dr. Banner on the twenty-fifth floor does rock out to heavy metal on rare occasion.”

You smile and move your chair back to give her better across to your computer. “Did you move to Seattle for this internship?” You ask naively. Perhaps a rude assumption. But Wanda merely looks at you through the corner of her eye, smirks, and nods. She continues typing, her fingers clicking away along the keys. She speaks briefly, simple questions to get past the set up screens, but nothing more. Strictly business. As you watch her work, your phone vibrates atop your desk.

_How’s your first day going? Have they already given you a raise?_

You smile as you peer down at Bucky’s text, readying your fingers to reply.

“Your boyfriend?” Wanda smiles toward the computer screen.

You blush and bite the inside of your cheek. You hate to lie, but Wanda doesn’t know any better. And she would never need to.

“Yes,” you say, your voice cracking. You hope she doesn’t notice. It’s a comfort to think this could seem normal to an outsider.

 _No raise yet. But it’s only noon._ You smile as you send your reply.

Wanda continues on the keys before finally pulling away, her job effectively done.

“You’re all set,” she announces. “Now, more importantly, do you have plans for lunch?”

You peer up at her with wide, hopeful eyes. Immediately, your stomach starts to growl, as if on command. You both laugh in unison. It erases any lingering tensions of unfamiliarity held between you. Suddenly, you feel settled. You feel like you belong.

You spend the rest of the work day at Wanda’s side, losing track of time. Your phone continues to buzz, but you hardly have time to stop and respond, busying yourself with minor tasks you and Wanda can concoct for first day jitters. The shuffling of workers out of the building eventually alerts you to the impending hour. You go to collect your things, waving good bye to Wanda. Your hand brushes over the crisp, new leather of your gifted notebook. It is still untouched, left forgotten atop your desk. Tomorrow, you tell yourself. _Tomorrow I will use it, Steve._

You opt for the bus, needing the extra solitude to prepare for the return home. With a deep breath, you retrieve your phone and begin to scroll through the myriad of unanswered texts. There’s one from your mother, wishing you luck on your first day, complete with kiss and heart emojis. There’s one from Steve, the message more or less the same. Sans emojis. You smile down at the screen, letting the euphoria of accomplishment rush away your nerves. This job is good for you. This move is good for you. _I’m right where I should be._

Then, there is a text from Penny, hidden amongst the remaining texts from Bucky, also left unanswered in your negligence.

_Can we talk? I think you’re making a mistake._

You practically drop the phone, letting it bounce on the empty seat beside you. _I am making a mistake?_ Your hands form fists stop your lap. Your teeth grind together. _That’s really what you want to say to me, Penny?_

Your phone buzzes and you gather the needed strength to retrieve it. Dealing with Penny could wait until the end of eternity for all you cared. With the flick of your finger, you finally manage to read the string of texts left by Bucky. You breeze through several nonchalant texts, asking how your day is going, seeing if you are settling in alright, until you reach the end.

 _I hate my fucking job,_ he sent at two o’clock.

 _I may be slightly drunk,_ came three hours later.

 _Let’s run away._ Two minutes ago.

You storm up the stairs of your building in a rush. Completely breathless, you swing open the door to your shared condo. A chorus of laughter rolls over you. Masculine, rough, but laden with liquid courage.

“You are an ass, Barnes,” you hear as you round the corner slowly. “A true ass.”

“I do have a nice one,” Bucky replies with a slur, raising a clear liquid to his lips. His eyes widen as he catches sight of you in the doorway. “Doll! You’re home!”

He comes charging forward, threatening to topple you both onto the floor. But you are quick to place a hand upon his chest, stopping him. _Not here,_ you want to warn him. _Not in front of them._ You look past him at his friends, who seem to share a strange mix of bewilderment and indifference.

“How long have you all been at it?” You ask, irritated by his drunken state. You can smell the stale remnants of beer on his breath, masked only by the crisp replacement of something stronger: vodka. You peer around Bucky to Steve, who seems to be the only sober one amongst the trio. Sam is half obscured by the refrigerator door, helping himself to another beverage. Steve is sipping slowly on what may be his only bottle of the evening. “About three hours,” he replies with a tilted smile. 

“Rough day at the office?” You joke. Bucky shifts his weight into your hand, slumping his forehead upon your shoulder.

“Doll,” he murmurs softly so only you can hear. “Tell them to leave. I need you.”

“Two attempted suicides,” Sam’s voice drowns out Bucky’s murmuring as he closes the fridge door. “Rough is putting it lightly.”

“Suicides?” You barely blink. Your mouth hangs open in disbelief.

“Bucky had to talk them off the ledge,” Steve explains further with a frown. “Literally.”

“Two men. Lovers apparently,” Sam continues. “They formed some sort of death pact. Felt they couldn’t live in a world that wouldn’t accept them.”

“Wouldn’t accept them?” You gape. “But things are different. The world’s different. Why would they...”

Bucky’s grip on your arm tightens. You hear his teeth grind together as if a silent plea to cease the topic. You knew they had to deal with the painful aftermath of war at the VA. But Bucky did physical therapy. You didn’t think he’d have to be involved in those kind of cases. To picture him, standing at the edge of oblivion, it’s almost too much to bear. The only hope for those two lost souls...

You dare not ask anything further.

You lift your hand to his cheek, pulling him from the comfort of your shoulder. You caress the rough patch of skin, littered with stubble. “Bucky,” you say softly. “Are you alright?”

Your eyes meet and it’s as if the room fades away and only you two are left standing in the shadows of sunset. As if the rest of the world does not matter in the slightest.

“No,” he answers finally in an exhale.

“We should go,” Steve says suddenly, raising from his chair at the kitchen table. He motions for Sam to follow him. Sam chugs too much of his beer with an audible gag. When Steve reaches you in the doorway, he places one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and another on yours. His smile is weak and fragile as if a single glance may break him.

“He is your problem now,” he says, forcing that smile to widen but not quite reach his eyes.

You smile back, but even your gesture seems artificial.

“Thanks, Steve.”

You watch the two men leave as the condo falls into silence, occupied only by the sound of your mutual breathing. Heavy. Labored.

“Babygirl,” Bucky purrs against your neck. “I want... I need...” His weight slumps against you as the effect of his drinking takes holds. You grip onto his shoulders and, in defeat, sigh deeply and smile.

“Lets get you to bed, tough guy,” you say softly as you push his hair back out of his face. His eyelids flutter closed, a clear indication of his descent toward collapse. You lead him toward his bedroom where he falls, dead weight against the bed. His head falls limp to one side as he murmurs nonsensical pleas.

You lean against his doorway, watching as he slowly fades into a peaceful slumber. He needs a restful night, free from the demons of war and previous solitude. He deserves so much more than this life has given him. He sought comfort in the beds of random women and now drowns his sorrow in the cool elixir of lost sobriety. But it isn’t enough. Perhaps, you held the key. If your love could heal the scars the past have left behind, let the fires of hell come. Let them consume you. In that moment, watching his chest slowly rise and fall, you decide that he is worth it. Bucky’s love is worth all the consequences that may come.

So, you’d welcome them.


	9. A Sinful Word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Have I really not updated this since October? What a couple of months it’s been! I know I owe it to you all to continue this story and I really want to. So I’ve dived back into this sinful tale! I’m hoping to be able to write out a few more chapters very soon so you will not have to wait as long. Hope you enjoy this chapter after such a long hiatus!

When Bucky wakes the next day, the consequence of his excessive drinking weighs down heavy over his head. He could swear that if he were to turn onto his side, the melted bits of his brain might pour out onto his pillow. So he refrains from moving, if only for a few moments longer, and stares up at the blank ceiling. The memories left from yesterday are now only broken fragments, flashes of imagery he’d rather forget. Like the cool air on his cheeks as he stood on the rooftop, staring out at the two men balancing at its edge. In the night, their faces had morphed into something more familiar. One became more feminine, delicate and fragile. As if the wind itself may tear her apart with a single gust. The other became his own, worn and haggard, but so very alive. And as he watched them, at the border of life and death, they turned and smiled before falling forward into the abyss, their hands intertwined. He would have woken up screaming, if not for the dull ache depriving him of the will to move, to react. To be. 

With daylight rising at his back, Bucky groans and shifts into a seated position. As he blinks awake, he makes out a form to his right, resting her head gently against the edge of the bed. The rest of her body is sprawled out upon the floor. Her hair fans out around her like a halo. Her lips are slightly parted as she takes in shallow breaths. His sister. His beautiful sister and would-be lover. Here you are at his side with your heart laid out on a silver platter, even at the threat of being torn apart. He reaches for you but stops. You are a flower in bloom. Beauty he doesn’t deserve. He is damaged. He is the night threatening the bright light of your sacred day. The darkness wrapped round his heart is a burden he does not wish to lay upon you. You deserve more. You deserve someone who can love you without threat of pain. Something effortless. Simple. 

Not only is he your brother, the forbidden offering, but he is also a monster. Only a fragment of his humanity is left behind in the wake of war. Yesterday proved that more than anything. War still rages within his heart. The battle drums thunder in time with his blood. 

He gets out of bed then, careful not to wake you. The nausea comes immediately but he swallows the bile down. He tiptoes out into the kitchen, downs a mouthful of painkillers with a gulp of stale coffee, and reaches for his phone. It barely even rings once. 

“Morning,” Steve answers rather cheerfully. “How are you feeling?” 

“Like shit.” His voice is rough, groggy. “Maybe you should finally take me to AA.”

“Maybe.” Steve laughs. “I can take you right now if you want. I hear there are morning coffee meetings out by the river.”

“Sure, why not,” Bucky jokes, through mention of his very real alcoholism makes him ill at ease. “Seriously though, Steve, I think I need a day at home to stare at the backs of my eyelids. Maybe two days.” 

“Well you can’t come into work today anyway,” Steve goes on. “You may have been too drunk to remember this but they are giving you paid leave for the week because of the incident at the VA. Yesterday was.... You need to take some time. They know that. I know that. So spend the day at home. Or go out. Just don’t go to work, okay?”

“I won’t complain about a free vacation.” Bucky tries to smile but his chest is tight.  

Steve. How easy it would be for him to win your affection. Steve came home unscathed by war. Barely a scratch or scar to serve as a reminder. He was a war hero. The perfect image of the American soldier. Adjusted. Proud. While Bucky is the shadow of justice. The horrible truth the world would rather forget. 

“Listen, Steve... I wanted to ask you something.” He holds his head. It is so heavy. As if without his hand there it might break off from his neck. “What do you think of my sister?”

There is a brief silence on the other end of the line before her finally responds in a low voice, “Your sister?”

“Yeah. What do you think of her?”

Steve is silent for another moment. Perhaps a moment too long. Until finally, he sighs, rather audibly. “Why are you asking me that, Buck?”

Bucky grips the edge of the countertop hard. He pulses his metal fingers against the marble. “You think she’s cute, right?”

“Well... I mean, yes. Of course I do. I have eyes.”

Bucky laughs to cut the tension. “I guess,” he replies as the image of your naked form sprawled out on his bed comes to mind. Your lips parted for him, calling his name as you spread your legs wide. All for him. Only for him. He swallows hard to bid his thoughts to silence. “You and Peggy have been broken up for over a year now,” he goes on. “So, I thought maybe you two could... well I thought it might be best that you...”

“You want me to date your step sister?”

His hand goes through his hair. It is sticky with the remnants of his gel. Stale. He needs a hot shower. Or maybe a cold one. He palms the regrettable evidence of his arousal pressing against his jeans. “You’d be good for her,” he forces himself to say. “Really good. She deserves a good man. Not someone as damaged as...” The words feel like an arrow through his own heart. His throat tightens. He cannot say another word. He chugs enough gulp of coffee and winces. It is burnt and cold. 

“Don’t do this,” Steve replies. His voice is sullen. “Don’t.”

“Don’t do what?” Bucky laughs again nervously. “Would you date her or not?” 

“She isn’t interested in dating me,” Steve says bluntly. “And besides, I know that you two...” 

“What about us?” Bucky suddenly snaps. Fear pulses across his temple in a sharp thread of pain. He grimaces and reaches for the bottle of painkillers, debating another dose. 

“She’s your stepsister, Bucky. I can’t date your sister.”

“Sure you can!” He swallows down the pill, dry. “You always said we were like brothers anyway. This would make it legit.” 

“Stop.” Steve’s voice is stern, tight. “Would you be honest with yourself for once? This has nothing to do with me and her, does it?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Cold sweat drips down his forehead. His legs go weak beneath him. _I need to lay back down._

“Bucky?”

He turns to find you in the hallway, leaning timidly against the wall. He had not noticed before but you are wearing his shirt. You must have put it on at some point in the night. It is splashed with beer he must have spilled in his drunken stupor. But you do not seem to mind, clinging to fabric that barely reaches your knees.  

“I gotta go.”

“Bucky! Wait!”

He ends the call abruptly, tossing his phone uselessly across the counter. 

“Bucky?” You stare at him in a mix of disbelief and awe. “Are you feeling okay?”

You had woken alone, alarmed by your sleeping arrangements. You could have sworn you had gone to bed after making sure Bucky was asleep. You must have dozed off instead. But more alarming is your attire, a thief you did not remember committing. You take in the sight of Bucky holding himself up against the kitchen counter. He is bare chested and a sickly shade of pale. The only hue in amongst his skin are the dark rings under his eyes, hidden partially beneath his sleep-tousled hair. But despite his disheveled appearance, when he gazes up at you with his bedroom eyes, your knees go weak beneath you. 

“Never better, doll,” he replies with a wide smile. “Chocolate chips?”

You blink at him dumbly. He takes your silence with a small smirk and begins to gather ingredients from the fridge and pantry. You watch his every move, putting the hints together. He begins to whisk the ingredients in a bowl, a frying pan set out onto the stove.

“Chocolate chips?” You ask again for clarity as you step further into the kitchen. With a glance over his shoulder, you see the puddle of pancake batter bubbling in the pan. You breath in deeply to take in the sweet aroma as it begins to cook.  

“With your pancakes,” He clarifies with a laugh. “Are you awake yet?”

“Hardly.” You pour yourself a mug of coffee as he sprinkles in the chocolate chips. “Aren’t you the least bit hung over? Last night... you didn’t look so good.” Your gaze shifts to the open bottle of painkillers. “You don’t look so good now either if I’m being honest.”

“Ouch,” he winces in an exaggerated fashion. “I thought you might like the rugged look.”

You can not help but smile back at him but avoid giving him the satisfaction of agreeing. “How did you sleep?”

“Surprisingly well.” He flips the pancake, once more for good measure before sliding it onto an awaiting plate. “Though I’m not sure you can say the same. Looked like you slept on the floor the whole night.”

You shrug, unsure how to explain your need to be beside him and yet, your hesitation to join him in bed. He presents the finished breakfast out for you with a satisfied smile. “Take a bite,” he instructs. “Or I will never know if I’m actually shit at cooking.”

“You aren’t shit at cooking,” you laugh. “Those burgers you grilled up last fourth of July were amazing. I still dream about them.” 

“That’s grilling. Not cooking.”

“And this is breakfast.” You smile up at him, marveling at the way his bright eyes, while threaded with harsh red lines, shimmer against the morning light peeking through the curtains. “You can’t mess up breakfast.”

“Well eat it then!” He grabs your fork, takes a bit of pancake on the spear and holds out the morsel for you. “Open wide.”

You lick your lips before doing as he’s commanded, letting him present the sweet pancake upon your awaiting tongue. The chocolate melts and slides across your taste buds. You smile up at him, moaning your delight as you obediently chew. 

“So good,” you confirm before plucking up another bite with your fingertips. You suck your fingers clean of the residual chocolate and butter. 

“Don’t do that.” He turns his gaze to the floor with a chuckle.

“Don’t do what?” You wipe away a bit of chocolate from the corner of your mouth with the back of your thumb. It smears across your lips. “It tastes too good not to lick my fingers.” 

Bucky’s eyes dart back up and lock upon you. His pupils are blown wide, darkened with raw desire. Before you can speak, to correct yourself, he lunges at you. His metallic grip tightens against your skull as his mouth find yours. He licks and sucks on your lip, cleaning it of all remnants of chocolate. 

“You’re right,” he moans against you as he pulls back, only slightly. He lets his mouth linger over yours in a sinful caress. “So delicious.” He grinds his hips into you in a way that rips the air from your lungs. You cling to his chest, one hand tight around the dish towel thrown across his shoulder, now threatening to fall to the wayside. “Doll, when you do things like that, it makes me think of how I’d rather occupy that little mouth of yours.”

He uses his thumb to part your mouth slightly. He stares down at it, hungrily. Heat rushes into your cheeks. Your heart drums into your ears. You step away slightly to put some needed distance between you. You have work today. Everything else will have to wait until this weekend. The way you both promised.  

“This weekend,” you say aloud, without truly meaning to. You shake your head to chase the thought away. 

“This weekend?” He prods with a hopeful gaze. He slides his hands down your shoulders, leaving tender lines across your arms. He leans over you, kissing your neck tenderly. “What about this weekend?”

You tilt your head back to give him better access. Your body bends to his will, automatically giving in to everything he needs and desires. Everything you both need. He gladly continues a trail up your neck, sucking on your tender flesh with enough force to leave a mark or two. You moan and pull him closer, uncaring. 

“This weekend,” you begin in a raspy moan. “I want you, Bucky.”

“How do you want me?” He asks with his lips pressed to your pulse point, testing you.

“I want you... to...” Your hands tremble atop his shoulders as you struggle to say the words. “I want you to fuck me.”

You feel Bucky’s lips curve into a smile against your neck. “Why not now?” He growls in response. He grabs you and pulls you up to sit against the counter. His palms press into your parted thighs, pushing them further apart. “Why wait?” 

His lips find yours again in a desperate kiss, all tongue and teeth and savage desire, muddled only by his dulled reflexes. But when his phone buzzes on the countertop behind you, you pull away. 

“Do you need to get that?” You ask, but your voice is breathless and needy. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging him further down into you to take his mouth once more. 

“Fuck that.” Bucky moans into your mouth. “Fuck it all.”

His metal hand reaches up to begin kneading your bare breasts impatiently through his shirt as he sinks his teeth into your neck. You gasp and lock your legs around him, holding him to you. A makeshift tether. Again, his phone begins to buzz, this time from a call rather than a simple text. With a groan of annoyance, Bucky reaches around you and answers it.

“What?” He snaps in annoyance. He pushes his hand underneath the shirt. 

He is so close you can hear the muffled voice of the other person on the line. “Bucky? Son? Are you alright?”

“Shit…” he mutters under his breath. “Sorry, Dad. What’s up?”

Still, he does not stop. He delicately traces a cold metal finger across the side of your breast. You sigh and lean into the curve of his neck. Your nails dig into his back in warning. 

“We haven’t heard from you in a while. How are things?” Your stepfather asks on the other end. “You both holding up okay?” 

“Yea, we are doing great.” His finger sweeps across your perked nipple. 

“Are you and your sister getting along?”

Your eyes widen as you pull back to look at him directly. He peers down at you with a mischievous grin. “We are getting along great. Better than ever actually.” He takes your exposed nipple between his fingertips, pinching. You stifle a moan by biting down hard upon your lip. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth. You release your holdwith a groan of displeasure. Bucky is quick to grab your chin, examining the self-inflicted wound. 

“Clumsy girl,” he growls in a low whisper as he sweeps his thumb across your wounded lip. 

“What was that?” Your stepdad asks.  

Bucky laughs lightly, to conceal the true deviance of the situation. “Nothing Dad. Listen, I have to go. My little sis needs to get ready for work and I promised to give her a ride.” He licks his lips, punctuating the last phrase with a lustrous smirk. He thrusts forward into you for further emphasis.  

“Okay, give her my best!” He replies cheerfully, completely oblivious.

“Oh I will.”  _Click_. He ends the call. 

“Bucky!” You moan loudly in surprise as his finger pushes up, finding the wetness of your sex slick and ready for him. 

He stops, if only for a moment, before he tenderly strokes your folds. The place of his ultimate desire. He growls into your neck in satisfaction. He is no longer ashamed to indulge in the truth of his affections for you. To show you just how much you’ve weakened him. 

“You must be trying to kill me,” he groans deep in his throat. “No bra, no panties. What a dirty little slut my sister is.”

Your eyes widen. “Don’t call me that…” Your face feels too hot, too flushed by a shame you can not ignore. 

“Oh but you are, aren’t you?” His fingertip pushes inside, enough to make you wither beneath him. “You want to take your big brother’s cock in your tight little pussy, don’t you?”

“Bucky… don’t…”

His finger slides in deeper, curling upward to find that hidden spot that makes your knees tremble beneath his hold. “You are so wet for your brother.” 

“Stop that…”

“No, I want to hear you say it,” he growls as he thrusts harder into you. His metallic thumb presses into your swollen clit. You cry out for him. 

“Say what?” You regret the question as soon as it leaves you. He fucks you faster with his finger, a devilish grin across his lips.

“Say you want to fuck your brother, you dirty whore.”

“Stop it!” But your body can no longer resist him. You grind against his hand, riding his finger with each thrust of your hips. He slides a second in. “Bucky… oh god…”

“Say it,” he commands. “Say you want your big brother’s cock.” 

“I can’t!” You protest but still, your body moves on it’s own. You can feel the crest of your impending release, the heat growing low in your belly. 

“Yes, you can. Say it!” He snaps. 

“This isn’t… we can’t…” You push against his chest slightly, pushing him away. 

He takes your words and actions for trepidation. For regret. His hand jerks back immediately, removed from his reckoning. Within the depths of his own mind, he is lost in the shadows of the past, the echoes of war and death. The same death he thought would come to claim him but only took his arm, blown off his body from a nearby blast. He winces and pulls away completely, leaving a considerable distance between you.  _I can’t do this. I’ll ruin her._

You stare at him with a wide gaze. Your body trembles slightly from the denial of release and a shock that washes over you in waves. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“Do you not want this?” Bucky’s hands form into tight fists. _She deserves more than me. Than this. Than the lust that consumes us both._ He lifts his gaze to stare back at you. He becomes lost in your innocent expression, in the pain and desire mingling in your eyes.  _But I want her. I need her._

“Of course I want this,” you argue. Your voice shakes as you speak. You swallow hard and close your eyes, searching for the courage to continue on. “ I … I just… the things you said…” You can barely manage to find the right words. “I don’t think we should talk like that.” It’s a lie. One you pray he will not know. But the truth is his words had aroused you more than you were ready to admit. His cock. Your brother’s cock. Your mouth salivates at the thought. You chase the thought away and plead with him to return to you, to take your hand. After a moment, he finally does. You pull him back into your embrace, wrapping your arms tight around his back. He breathes in deeply, taking in your sweet aroma. You stroke his head affectionately. He sighs and leans into your touch, gazing down at the marble countertop with an expression of both fear and longing. 

“I shouldn’t have said those things,” he whispers. “But I just… with you, I don’t know how to stop. I love that you’re my sister.” He kisses your neck again, softly. “That doesn’t make me want you any less,” he goes on. “It makes me want you more.” 

A shiver runs through you, taking your breath away with it. When finally, you are able to find some resolve, you speak. “I want you too, Bucky,” you confess. “I want to be with you. I promise. More than anything.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he replies, exhaling into your shoulder. 

“Bucky, look at me.” You pull back enough for him to meet your gaze. You hold his head in both of your hands, stroking his cheeks affectionately. “Do you want to be with me?”

His hands fall onto your knees. Your legs tremble slightly beneath the promise of his returned touch. 

“More than anything,” he confirms firmly.  

“Then lets run away. Just like you suggested.” 

“Run away?” He takes a step back. His expression shifts. “When did I say that?” 

“Last night,” you explain, searching his eyes for clarity. You blush with embarrassment when you find only confusion in his gaze. “Along with a lot of other things.”

“In front of the guys?” He is completely out of your grasp now, standing in the center of the kitchen. He turns to face the still hot stove. “Did Steve hear me say anything like that?” 

“Steve?” You blink at his back. You grasp nervously to his shirt, pulling it tighter against your chest as a security blanket. “No, no I don’t think he did… Bucky, why does any of that matter?”

_I know that you two_ …  Steve had begun to confess to something before Bucky stopped him. _What Steve? What do you know about us?_

He could not bear the thought of losing Steve. The prospect that he might hate him for doing this is very real, very near to coming to fruition. Panic darkens his heart. But he needs you more than anything else. You are his only true happiness. And if Steve couldn’t see that, perhaps no one would. 

Perhaps not even you. 

“Doll, I don’t want you to be late for work,” he finally says in a groan. He turns to face you, forcing a smile upon his lips. “Why don’t you go get dressed? I can drive you to work... like I told dad.”

You nod and hop down off the counter. The floor feels colder than you remember. You walk off to your room in silence, leaving Bucky standing awkwardly in the kitchen. While you are gone, he falls heavy against the floor, sliding down the wall in complete defeat. He holds his heavy head in his hands, exhaling. He can not chase the storm clouds rolling in overhead. His own thoughts screaming at him to surrender, telling him this will never work. Your parents will hate you both. Your friends will leave you. And maybe, your love will not be strong enough to withstand that kind of abandonment. You would both be alone in the world. He could not bear the thought of ruining your life that way. The fear he had seen in your eyes, the hesitation, it was enough to break his heart. He lifts his hand away and stares down at the metallic grooves, shifting as he pulses his fist open and closed. Monster, he called himself. He holds his fingers tight, curled inward to keep his aggression at bay. 

He is a monster for what he has done. For the lives he has taken, for the life war took from him. But he is even more of a monster for wanting you, for craving the sound of those sinful words from your lips. Brother. Sister. Lover. 

He has damned you both to hell.

You shower and dress in a hurry. All the while you fight the urge to satisfy an itch left incomplete by Bucky’s denial. As you brush your hair, you cannot chase away the thought of running away. It has been Bucky’s suggestion to begin with but now... now perhaps it is only a dream. A dream not worth fighting for.

You re-emerge back into the kitchen, confusion and hurt heavy upon your shoulders. But you fight back against those cruel emotions and force yourself to smile. For Bucky. He is dressed and ready for you, a prepared lunch in hand, your laptop sling across his shoulder. He still has not shaved but he looks more refreshed than last you left him. Perhaps he managed to shower too. But he looks tired, as if a war raged within his heart, flooding out of his baby blues. 

“Shall we?” He opens the door for you and you silently step through.  

The whole drive to your office you are both silent. You watch the clock tick away each minute until you are officially late. But you do not care. Not in the least bit. 

“Bucky I meant what I said,” you finally manage, turning toward him. “Let’s run away.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replies without taking his eyes off the road. “We can’t do that.”

“Why not?” 

His grip on the stirring wheel tightens, his knuckles white. “Where would we go?” He says in a low growl. “Here we have jobs, we have a nice place to live. If we left...Who would ever hire someone like me?”

You are unsure how to respond so you settle back into your seat and stare at him. Without thinking, you reach out your hand to rest on his thigh. He finally turns to look at you as he pulls up to the office, parking the car. 

“Doll, maybe this isn’t...”

“Stop. It’s okay,” you reassure, reaching up to cup his jaw in your hand. “I told you I want you. I meant every word. So if we have to, we will just take this one day at a time, okay?”

“Yea, one day at a time,” he agrees, though his eyes seem unsure. You squeeze his hand before you step out of the car. You hold the door open. 

“I’ll see you when I get home,” you say softly peering back in. 

He turns back to the road, his gaze unclear. “Sure.”

You close the door and watch him drive off, his silence leaving a spear through your heart. 


	10. A Misunderstanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I rewrote this three or four times. I hope you like the outcome!

You are sitting at your desk, gnawing the end of your pen into a plastic monstrosity. A pile of unread manuscripts have begun to grow atop your desk. But you could not be bothered with doing any actual work today. Not while your mind is so preoccupied with a more pressing matter: _Bucky_. 

You grip your phone, staring down at the reflective surface as if it held all the answers you seek. But there has not been a single text, nor a missed call. He has not tried to reach out to you. Not once.And with that comes the painful truth that perhaps he does not feel the same yearning ache as you do. The longing to hear his voice. To hear him say those words you so often dreamt he may someday confess _._ _I love you_. 

You glance at the time. There are only a few hours left in the workday. Should you be the one to bridge the gap before coming home to face a cruel reality. The reality that this forbidden tryst has been so short lived.  

You type, delete and retype a message several times, changing your tone and context when paranoia sinks in.  

“I miss you,” you try first. 

“Is everything alright?” You try next. 

But none of it sounds right. None of it conveys the emotions spiraling through you in a heated panic. 

_Do you not want to be with me?_

So instead, you call. But it rings and rings, like the drumming of your broken heart, over and over again. When you are about to give up, tossing your phone aside to reach for the top layer of manuscripts, it begins to ring. Frazzled, you fumble to retrieve it as your heart thunders up into your throat. But when you unlock it, the name you see is not one you are expecting.  

You pull the pen from your lips and stutter, “S...Steve?”

“Hey, is this a bad time?” He asks. “I know you are at work.”

You stand up, gazing around at the office. Wanda, who sits beside you, peeks up momentarily, only to bury her face back into her laptop. 

“No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to see how you are doing,” he replies. “How you are both doing.” 

There is a layer of trepidation in his voice, something that speaks to a knowledge beyond what is expected of him. You recall what Bucky said that morning: “Did the guys hear?” Was it fear of discovery that pulled him away from you? Did he fear Steve may suspect? 

You swallow hard. “Why do you ask?”

“I tried calling Bucky this morning and our conversation didn’t exactly go as planned,” he explains. “I know he didn’t handle the situation at the VA very well. So I thought maybe you talked to him.” 

Your skin goes cold. Your eyes widen in shame. You hadn’t even thought about what he had gone through, the deaths he’d witnessed and been unable to prevent. All you could think about was your own twisted desire to be with him. You close your eyes and curse your selfishness. Perhaps you truly are wicked.So undeserving of his love.  

“He seemed alright this morning. Considering,” you reply finally, recalling his desperation to have you. Had he just been desperate to ignore the pain festering inside of him? To ignore the depression clawing through every hope of happiness. Your heart aches at the thought. “I haven’t heard from him at all since then...” 

“Don’t let it bother you. We all deal with this in our own way. The PTSD.”

We all deal with this. _This_. But you cannot help but think that “this” is something else entirely. That the pain he feels is amplified by the cruel reality of your temptation. His parting words echo in your head. An unfinished thought. _Maybe this isn’t.... isn’t what? Isn’t what you want? Isn’t what you need?_

“I’m sure Bucky’s going to be okay,” Steve adds pulling you from your negative swirl. 

“Is he though?” You ask both to Steve and to yourself. 

“He will be,” he reassures. “But I actually didn’t call just talk to about that...”

He sounds nervous, something that makes you just as uneasy. You twist the cord of your name badge around your finger. “I’m listening.”

“Next weekend, the VA is hosting a charity event for veterans,” he explains. “It’s sort of like a ball. Everyone dresses to the nines. Champagne, limos. It’s kind of a big deal around town.”

“Bucky’s never mentioned it.” 

“I’m sure he hasn’t. He avoids those things like the plague. He is around vets all day at work. It’s a constant reminder of where he has been, what he’s done. What we’ve all done really, but...”

_He’s rambling_. 

“Steve, are you asking me to go with you?” You cut him off. Your pen finds it way back between your teeth. _Please say no._

“I’m asking you to go with Bucky.”

Your eyes widen. 

“Why...Don’t you think he should be asking me himself?” You reply meekly. “Besides, I’m sure he can find a real date.”

“No. It should be you.”

You sit down on the cushioned window sill and stare out at the city scape below. Every speck of human life seems miles away, detached from where you are.  

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” you whisper as you take in the gravity of his suggestion. The two of you. In public. As any other normal couple. But why would Steve suggest it?

“Will you think about it at least?” He asks after, you realize, you’ve left him hanging on the other end of the line. Lost in silent thought.  

“Yea, I’ll think about it,” you agree. 

“Good. When you get home tonight, will you let me know how he’s doing?” 

“Sure, Steve.” 

“And if you don’t have any luck finding him, try The Keg.” 

“The Keg?”  

“The bar he frequents. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s there now.” 

You say your goodbyes and hang up the phone. You linger by the window for a few moments longer, unwilling and unable to move. For a second time, you try to call Bucky but this time, when the call goes to voicemail, you leave a message.

—

On the other side of town, Bucky had resorted to day-drinking, silencing his sorrows with half a bottle of gin, no chaser.He stares down at an empty phone, your contact info pulled up at the ready. The picture had been taken without your knowledge, when you’d been in the kitchen one afternoon. You were laughing after having burnt a second batch of cookies. Your face beamed with a bright, amused smile. He loves that picture. How happy you were desperate your failure. He loves that about you. He loves everything. 

As he stares down at the phone, it begins to ring. But he can’t bring himself to answer it, to explain himself. To give you reason for his distance. So he shoves the phone into his pocket, downs the rest of the gin and orders another. 

“A little early for gin, don’t you think?” The voice comes from behind him. “I’d prefer something lighter. Maybe wine?”

The bartender responds to the silent order, busying himself with the pouring of her chosen drink. 

She sits down next to Bucky at the bar. “Thought I might find you here,” she says softly.  

He turns only briefly to regard her. “I’m not really in the mood, Natasha,” he says before throwing back a gulp of his newly refreshed drink. She pulls a rolling suitcase behind her, her leather jacket tight around her shoulders. 

“Well I’m sorry. Can you blame a girl for wanting to see her friend before she jets out of town?” She thanks the bartender for the wine and takes a meager sip. “I was only in town for a few days and I didn't saw you once.”

Bucky sighs against the rim of his glass. “I’m sorry, Nat. I should have contacted you.”

She slides her hand over his, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. “No harm done. Seems you’ve been preoccupied.” Her eyes dazzle with knowledge. “Whose the lucky lady this time?”

“No one.” He turns back to his drink. 

She laughs. “You still think you can lie to me? After all these years you don’t think I’ve figured you out?”

She continues to laugh until she sees his twisted expression. Her own softens. “Hey, you know you can talk to me. What’s going on? Did this girl break your heart?” She leans in closer to add in a whisper, “If she did, I’ll kill her.” 

He hardly has the energy to laugh, so he merely shakes his head. “I’m breaking my own,” he whispers into the clear elixir.  

“Bucky, just tell me,” she urges.

“It’s not that simple.” He shifts slightly in his chair. Looking at her now, he can remember the love he once felt for her. He was young, they both were. They needed a way to understand themselves and their bodies. Natasha had been the perfect person to be his first. He would not have it any other way. Even now, she  holds a very special place within his heart. But it is not the same. It never would be. He lets her take his hand fully, as she encourages him to speak. 

“I’m not sure how you’re going to react to this,” he whispers with a quick glance to the bartender. He takes the hint and disappears into the back, giving them their needed privacy. 

“Just tell me,” she insists with an exasperated sigh. 

He closes his eyes as he speaks. “It’s my sister.” 

—

Ending your message to Bucky, you wipe away the stream of tears that had escaped despite your determination to stay strong. You could not manage one simple task. You could not wear a brave face for Bucky. And now, if he were to hear your message, you fear how he might react. You force a smile as you approach Wanda’s desk, after she called to you from your position at the window. “Sorry, I… what was it you needed?”

Wanda stares up at you with wide eyes, brimming with concern. “Are you okay?” She asks softly. 

“Yea, it’s nothing.” You chase a rebel tear away as it races down your cheek. You pretend it was never there. 

“Why don’t you head out early?” Wanda suggests. 

“But it’s not even four,” you reply, fidgeting nervously.

Wanda shakes her head, persistent. She taps the pile of papers on her desk that she has confiscated from yours. “I can finish the rest of this.”

“Are you sure?” You ask. It’s a question of social obligation, but you are so utterly grateful for the opportunity to escape. 

“Go,” she commands. But before you do, she reaches out for your hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “You call me if you need anything. I mean it.”

You nod with a small smile and return the gesture. The warmth of her offering spreads through your chest, sparking a place left cold in the wake of Penny’s betrayal. “Thanks, Wanda.”

You grab your coat and sprint out into the vibrant city. Your heart is racing. There is only one place you know to go. The Keg.While it had been Steve’s suggestion, you know there is still the possibility he will not be there. That you might be able to put an end to this game of fear. You want Bucky. And damnit, if he wants you just the same, then nothing else matters. You pull your coat tighter and pray you will find him, and that perhaps you can put back the puzzle pieces of the love you so nearly lost. 

—

Silence follows after Bucky’s confession to Natasha. A deafening stillness that forces him to reopen his eyes. He looks across at her, sitting at the bar. She is still holding his hand, but her eyes are a bit wider and her mouth is slightly open. 

“Your sister,” she repeats, as if she’s misheard.

“Shit,” he mutters pulling a hand away to run down the plane of his face. “I love her, Nat,” he confesses. “I know it’s fucked up. I know that. But it doesn’t stop how I feel about her.”

Natasha pulls away from his grasp completely and he fears he’s lost her. But she quickly grabs hold of his shoulders and bring him into her warm embrace. She holds him tight, steady, her hand to the back of his head. 

“Oh Bucky, is that all?” She whispers as she strokes his back reassuringly. 

“Is that all?” He gapes at the wall. “She’s my sister. In no universe is this okay.”

“Step sister,” Natasha corrects. She pulls away to look at him, her eyes dancing between his own. “You aren’t related by blood. You are as much strangers as any other couple falling in love.” She reaches up to hold his face in her hands. “Are you really going to run away from something that makes you happy?” 

“I don’t want to,” he replies. His throat is tight. “But I can’t do this to her. Not everyone sees it the same way you do.”

“So screw them!” She shouts. “Fight for her, you coward.”

Her stern expression breaks into a smile the second he returns her gaze. “Listen, if you want to be with her, you tell her. And don’t you ever stop telling her for as long as you are lucky enough to have her.” 

She checks the time with a muttered curse, pays the bartender and stands to leave. But not before threading her fingers through Bucky’s one last time. “Tell her how you feel,” she says. “Then maybe the two of you can face whatever the world has to throw at you. Together.” 

She leans in and kisses his cheek tenderly, her touch lingers. She smooths her fingers through his beard before she turns and leaves him alone at the bar. He pivots to watch her go but it isn’t Natasha who catches his eye. Another woman is standing in the doorway as Natasha excuses herself and pushes her way past the other woman. They both exchange a glance, the other woman’s eyes brimming with tears. 

Bucky bolts up from the barstool and gasps your name. But you shake your head in disbelief, refusing to look at him, and run out of the bar. He knows that from what you had seen, standing at the entrance of the bar, would have looked damning. It had been an innocent exchange between old friends, but to you, it may have appeared to be something else. He races after you but sways slightly on his feet. He stalls and grips onto wall in an attempt to steady his tilted vision. With a grunted curse, he slams his metal fist into the wall with a shout. He doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything. 

After years of over-drinking, he could handle a lot more than he thought possible. But he was dependent on the liquid elixir to drown out the night terrors and the fear. It took much more than a few glasses to silence the guilt. There had been nights when a razor blade seemed to be his only friend. He had held that shimmering edge between life and death and weighed his options. Death always outweighed any other possibility. Any other hope. But each time he’d claim cowardice and toss the kill-switch into the sink. He would drink or fuck until he could forget again. But all that had changed the night another door was opened. When you said his name just as he gasped yours. You opened your heart to him. With you, life is worth living. It is worth seeing where the future may take him, leaving the darkness of the past behind him. But now you are gone, and he did not know how to win back your heart.

—

You run until your legs burn and ache beneath you, until you are gasping for air, bending over your knees. You choke on tears as you struggle to catch your breath. She kissed him. Smiled. The look in her eyes was more than dismissible. You stare up into the sky and watch as storm clouds gather overhead, seeing their faces in the dark plumes. A bolt of lightning slices through the sky. You cannot go back home. Not when Bucky would be there, waiting. You need to get away. You need to give your heart time to heal, time to re-evaluate the situation you’ve put yourself in. But where would you go?

You duck under a nearby shop’s awning as a slight drizzle begins. You pull out your phone and toggle between two contacts. Steve was kind and cared for you, but he had shown he had feelings for you. As hurt as you are, you would not give Bucky the satisfaction of such hateful revenge. You dial the second number and within seconds, Wanda answers. 

“Where are you?”

— 

Bucky stumbles upstairs, keys in hand, and pushes his way into the condo. He could fumble his way toward his bedroom but the couch is closer and proves a better option for his inebriation. He sighs and falls heavy into the plush cushioning, into the same spot where he first kissed you. He had thought it innocent at first; a lesson for his naive little sister. But his motivation had been far more devious. He wanted to taste you. To take a small sample of what it might be like to have you. To call you his girl. And how easily you’d given in to the movement of his mouth. He closes his eyes, remembering the taste of your skin, the feel of your little tongue swirling around his. Desperate to feel anything other than pain, he shuffles out of his jeans and palms his cock through his boxers. His phone falls out of the pocket and collides onto the floor. The screen lights up with a message he had not noticed before; one that had been left much earlier.

“Bucky… hi,” you say meekly. He can practically feel you trembling through the recorded message. “I… I’ve been thinking and… “ You stop, taking in a long breath and exhaling audibly into the phone.

“I might never know what it’s like for you. How hard it is to try to forget.” _No, you don’t. And I’d never wish for you to know this kind of pain, doll. I’d never wish for you to know anything but happiness._

“But you shouldn’t. You shouldn’t forget,” you go on. “Because everything you’ve done, it’s a part of you. It makes you who you are. And I… I love everything that you are, Bucky. The good and bad.”

He sits up straight, clutching tight to the phone, his other hand still held to his sex. He curses himself for still needing release from the sound of your voice alone. But you are distraught, torn in two by his selfishness. He pulls his hand away. 

“I want to be with you, no matter what happens,” you continue with a slight whimper. You are crying, he realizes. But it is a voice from the past. And here, in the present, he has left you in tears just the same. 

“Doll, please don’t cry,” he says, as if you were there with him, listening. 

“No matter what, I will face every consequence because it’s worth it. Its worth it just to call you mine.” You gasp a final sob, fighting back against the sound so he might not hear. But he knows. He knows the truth of your heart more than anyone.  

Someone calls to you in the distance. You stutter slightly, flustered. “I… please, Bucky..”

The message ends abruptly, leaving Bucky at a loss for words. He slides a hand down his face before falling back against the couch. _I love everything that you are, Bucky._

“Oh Doll, I love you more than anything,” he speaks into the stillness. 

His hand returns to his sex, stroking slowly. He thinks only of you. He mutters your name, clinging to every fleeting memory. _She wants me. She wants this._ It does not take long before he finds his release, warm within the palm of his hand. He groans and cleans himself, frustrated by his controlling lust. But he has his answer. Gods be damned, he would have you. He would claim that last glimmer of hope before he extinguishes it with his own self-hatred. Broken, he stares up the ceiling, and continues to do so long into the night as he waits in vein for your return. But you wouldn’t be coming home that night. And so he would wait, with only his own silent anguish as his company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was editing this and I kept asking my husband for names for the bar I used in the chapter. He goes “Is this for your smut? Call it COCKtails.” Fuck, I love my husband. Sadly, I decided to go with his second option instead.


	11. An Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke this original chapter into two (chapter 11 and chapter 12), so this is a little shorter than I intended. I want to focus on making the next chapter as good as it possibly can be, while still giving you all a bit of content. I hope you enjoy!

When you finally make it to Wanda’s place, you are soaked through from the downpour. You cling to your coat for warmth but shiver as you knock on the door. Your phone had been ringing nonstop as you slowly made your way the few blocks to Wanda’s apartment. But you ignored it, clinging to your pain as if it were a life raft in the Seattle sea. Even now, it begins to ring anew but your eyes glaze over, unseeing, unhearing.

Wanda greets you on the other side of the door with a gasp before gently pulling you inside.

“You poor thing!” She exclaims. “Didn’t you have your umbrella?”

You shake your head, putting up little resistance as she wraps a towel around your shoulders. You stare down at your feet where a small puddle of rainwater has collected around your drenched, squeaky flats.

_You are getting water all over the floor._

You wince at the sudden recall and pull the towel over your head to hide your shame.

“Let me go grab you some spare pajamas,” Wanda says before bolting down the hall in a haste.

You turn and take in the space.The apartment is rather small, though there appears to be a few hidden rooms down the hallway past your line of sight. It is warm inside, thawing the ice around your heart, and smells of clove and cinnamon. Home.

“Wanda, the paprikash is burning,” someone shouts in a panic from the depths of the apartment.

“Then stir it!” She shouts back in annoyance. A man rounds the corner and comes into the entry way, grumbling as he dries off his hands with a dish towel. He takes in the sight of you, cold and wet, dripping onto the floor, with a small smile. He pushes back the tuff of pale hair that has fallen forward into his eyes.

“Wanda’s friend, I presume,” he says. You nod meekly and pull the gifted towel back around your shoulders.

“Get her a plate, Pietro.” Wanda pushes her way past him, holding out a folded stack of sleep wear. “There is a bathroom down the hall. You can leave your clothes. I’ll run them through the wash.”

You take the offering, happy to rid yourself of your frigid work attire. You comb your fingers through your hair as you reemerge back into the common room in the borrowed pajamas. There, you find a table waiting with three plates of steaming supper. The man, Pietro, is already seated, his phone held in hand. He looks up briefly to regard your new attire but he looks away the moment Wanda reappears with a bottle of wine in each hand.

“Red or white?” She asks.

“White,” you say with a soft nod to your chosen bottle. Wanda reaches across the table to pour you a glass of liquid warmth. You settle down beside Pietro at the table and stare down at the plate. It is some sort of chicken dish and smells strongly of paprika. Appropriate, given the name.

“It’s a family recipe,” she explains. “The perfect comfort food. And if that doesn’t do the trick, there is always ice cream in the freezer.”

You smile up at her as you bravely take a forkful, lifting it to your lips. But before you can even taste the morsel, Wanda clears her throat.

“Okay, spill.” She settles back in her chair and eyes you over the glass rim of her own wine.

The forkful of paprikash hovers in front of your gaping mouth. “What?”

“You call me out of the blue, sounding like something has shaken you to your core.” She says with a narrowed gaze. “After crying at work, might I remind you. And you expect me to just brush it off? No. Not gonna happen. So, spill.”

You drop the fork into the plate with a quick glance to Pietro. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it…”

Wanda follows your gaze. “You can talk in front of him. He is hardly even listening,” she says.

“Oh, I’m listening.” He tosses his phone uselessly across the table and leans back in his chair, his arms folded behind his head. He arches his eyebrow toward you in interest. “Is this about a boyfriend?”

You blink at him before turning your gaze back onto Wanda. Her eyes have softened. She reaches forward across the table, studying you carefully.

“ _Is_ it your boyfriend?” She presses.

You silence yourself with, at last, a bite of the paprikash. You intend to use it as a faux distraction but it is much more delicious than you are anticipating. You go for another forkful but Wanda grabs hold of your hand firmly, stopping you.

“Is he hurting you?” Her eyes are narrow, unrelenting.

You shake your head. “No, he doesn’t hurt me.” Though some could argue otherwise, the way he needed to whip you with his belt. The way he wrapped his fist around your throat. But you wanted that. You still do.

“Then what is it?”

You don’t know Wanda. No more than a casual friend and colleague of only a week. And more importantly, she doesn’t know you. But she’s welcomed you into her home without even a second’s hesitation. She has been more of a friend in such a short time than Penny had ever been to you for years. You swallow hard and open your mouth to speak when your phone vibrates atop the table.

“Is he trying to make amends?” Pietro asks, gesturing vaguely toward your phone.

You reach for it but see a number not saved in your contacts. Intrigued, you open the message.

“I know you don’t know me,” it reads. “I know you don’t trust or like me for that matter. But I know what you mean to Bucky. I know what you mean to each other.”

Your heart begins to race. Was this meant to be a threat? Blackmail? You debate throwing the phone aside and ignoring it for the rest of the evening. But morbid curiosity has you continuing on, scrolling down the rest of the lengthy text.

“I was at The Keg with him today. You saw us, didn’t you? Whatever you think you saw, forget it. It couldn’t be further from the truth.” Natasha. You knew it was her the moment she turned around at the entrance of the bar. The description fit from what Steve had been privy to provide. A beautiful woman with red hair. A smile that could kill, and had. She truly was as beautiful as the stories claimed, something you felt you had no right competing with. And when you saw her lean in to kiss Bucky, you saw your own hope die. Because like Natasha, there are so many other women who would be much simpler options for Bucky to pursue. For him to marry. For him to create a family with. You bite your lip, chasing the thought away, and read on.

“He told me everything,” she continues. “I’ve been to war with the man and still, I’ve never seen him so scared. I don’t think anyone has ever been able to affect him the way you have. And because of that, he needs you. I think you need each other more than you might realize.” You stop for a moment, rereading through the first half of the message. _I know what you mean to each other_. She knows who you are and yet, she does not seem to care. She wants this for Bucky. She wants this for the both of you. “He loves you, do you know that? He loves you so much he is willing to break his own heart just because he thinks he will be saving you from your own destruction. But you are both so blind to the truth. So don’t let him do this. Don’t run away.”

“Well, was it?” Pietro presses on.

You barely move to look at him, your eyes held to the phone as you answer, “No, that was ... someone else.” You fidget with the device nervously before attempting to stand. “I…I might need to make a call.”

“Why don’t you try to take it easy for a little bit?” Pietro, surprisingly, pries the phone from your gasp and sets it gently aside. He urges you to sit back down with a hand placed tentatively to your shoulder. “Whatever it is, it can wait. We have paprikash and ice cream to eat.”

You laugh nervously, despite the thundering of your heart, echoing the storm still raging outside. “I like this guy, Wanda. You should keep him around.”

Pietro brows fold forward in confusion as Wanda sputters on her wine. “Well, I kind of have to,” she replies with a choke and a laugh. “He’s my brother.”

Your knees lock, your skin prickling with anxiety. “Your brother?”

“I know we don’t look much a like,” Pietro says. “But believe it or not, we are twins.”

“Fraternal,” Wanda corrects with a glare. “I clearly got all the better genetics in the deal.”

He kicks her under the table with a scoff but dashes an amused smile in her direction, one she happily returns.Watching them, you cannot help but feel a strange brand of envy boil inside of you. This is what you could have been, you and Bucky. True siblings, happy with the family you had found and kept. But instead, you both had let lust twist and spoil any hope of that. But perhaps, whatever love left between you could be nurtured into something greater than even this. 

With your silence, Wanda stands abruptly and walks toward the kitchen. She buries herself behind the door of her freezer as she digs through its contents. “Okay, forget the paprikash,” she begins as she re-emerges with a giant container of Cherry Garcia and three spoons in hand. “I say we put in a movie and eat until we give ourselves lactose intolerance.”

You grab your phone, making a mental note to keep Natasha’s number, and follow Pietro and Wanda into the living room, eager and ready for any sort of distraction. But you hardly make it through the first fifteen minutes of the movie, which name you will not recall the next day. Dreams are quick to flood your subconscious, bringing with them the truth of your heart.

Bucky pulls you into his embrace. His form a shimmering mirage. But his lips are warm against your neck, almost real. 

“Don’t go,” he whispers, pleading. “Don’t let this be the end.”

“I won’t,” you assure him as you pull away, enough to capture his mouth with your own, chasing his tears away the gentle caress of your hand.

On the other side of town, Bucky stares up at the ceiling of the living room  sleep a foreign concept. He still waits for you, his heart torn in two. He had called, several times, but he knew there was no reason for you to answer. Not when he has ruined everything. He grabs his phone once more and lets his desperation take hold. He would not let it end this way, not without one final goodbye. 

The buzz of your phone wakes you. It is the middle of the night, all lights extinguished around you; only your phone provides any sort of illumination amongst the darkness. As you shift to retrieve it, you realize someone has placed a plush blanket over you on the couch. You pull it closer as you unlock your phone to check the time.

A message from Bucky sits unread in your inbox. You hesitate long enough to see it had been sent at two fifty-five in the morning, barely a minute past. Your eyes burn against the technical glow. You groan and lower the brightness enough to adjust to the waking world. After a moment, you open his message.

“I need to hear your voice,” it says. “If this is goodbye, just let me hear your voice one more time.”

You sit up on the couch. Your hand finds your throat, where you can feel your pulse fluttering beneath your fingertips. _He thinks this is goodbye. He thinks he has lost me. That he has lost everything._ You clutch a fistful of the front of your pajamas and breath in deeply, then out. A calming technique. When you’ve settled enough to think, to speak, you call him.

After a few seconds, you hear the sound of shuffling on the other end as Bucky struggles in a half daze to answer the phone. His breath catches when he sees the caller ID. “Doll… is that… what time is…”

“Its three am,” you answer. “I can call back another time…”  
  
“No! Don’t go!” His voice has sharpened, alert and alarmed by the threat of your dismissal. “Please… don’t hang up.”

You are unsure what to say, how to begin. You swallow and lick your lips tentatively, weighing the options, when Bucky breaks the silence.

“I fuck up,” he starts. “I fuck up everything good in my life. No relationship I’ve ever had has lasted long. No woman has ever had much reason to stay. Not with the way I am.”

You open your mouth to protest but decide to let him finish when you hear his voice catch.

“And I could fuck this up too. I could mess up, even more than I have. That’s why I shut down. I’m a coward.”

“Its not wrong to be afraid,” you whisper back. “I’m scared too.”

“I want to do this right. I want to do this right with you. I don’t want to lose the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Bucky, listen...,” you start but he does not let you finish, too caught up in his own turmoil to even hear you.

“I never wanted it to play out this way,” he says softly. You can practically see him sitting across from you, his form taking shape amongst the shadows. He hunches over on the floor, his hair wild and unkept. But his crystalline blue eyes glisten at you like two glowing flint stones. “I always imagined what it would be like to finally tell you how I feel. Like one of those horrible rom-coms you love so much. This isn’t what I pictured.”

“Don’t say it then,” you whisper in reply. “Don’t.”

“But I have to. I can’t… I can’t leave things between us without you knowing the truth. Without you hearing me say it. Doll, I love…”

“Bucky, stop. Please.” You fight the press of tears, searing a film over your eyes. “This isn’t goodbye.”

“It’s… it’s not?” You can practically feel the heat of his breath through the phone.

“Natasha reached out to me,” you start, when all else fails. When all other reason and strategy are lost to the night in your sleepless haze. “I know what happened between you.” You can hear him begin to protest, thinking the worst, so you continue on. “She’s right, you know. About us.”

“What exactly did she say?” Bucky asks cautiously.

“That we need each other.” Your hand trembles but you cling to the phone, your only lifeline between love and heartache. “I need you, Bucky. So please don’t …. Don’t…”

“I’m done running,” he says firmly. “I’m done being afraid. I’m not going anywhere.”

You muffle a whimper behind your hand as the floodgates open and your tears fall freely down your cheeks in hot streams.

“Tell me what to do,” Bucky blurts out, almost panicked. As if the sound of your crying serves as a warning. “Please, doll, tell me what I need to do.”

You force back more tears and fight to find the right words. “Meet me tomorrow,” you tell him as a salty tear races over your parts lips and lands upon your tongue.

“Where?”

“Where we first met.”

—

“Club wear?” Wanda stands in front of her closet, tossing rejects out of the way as she struggles to find anything suitable to meet your request. You had both gone into work late that morning and clocked out early, blaming synced schedules and “mother nature” for your early departures. But the need to prepare had been the real culprit. Wanda dragged you to a lingerie shop downtown and insisted you buy something special. She knew nothing about the occasion, knew even less about your “boyfriend” but she was determined to have a hand in the evening’s success.

“Does he like red?” She held up a stingy piece of negligee. You were not sure how you would manage to get into it, never mind get out of it.

“I think he is more a fan of black,” you muttered. Your cheeks were hot with embarrassment. “Wanda, is this really necessary?”

“Yes,” she replied with a smirk as she shoved an unmentionable into your grasp. “Go try this on.”

A few awkward struggles later and you were walking out of the lingerie shop with a small paper bag in hand as evidence of your so-called “success.”

“Does this count as club wear?” Wanda holds up a leather skirt for your approval. You take it from her, debating whether a skirt is a good option, considering your choice of underwear.

“I think so,” you say regardless. She smiles triumphantly and continues to dig in search of a suitable top to match.

You sit down on the edge of her bed and catch sight of your discarded phone in the corner of your eye. All day, you had been tempted to text him. But you both agreed to do this one way, and texting beforehand would not be allowed.

“Here. This might work.” Wanda hands you a white lacy crop top. “I think I have some heels too that’ll look nice with that. You’re lucky we are the same size.”

You hold up the crop top to your chest. “The same size in some arenas… not so much in others.”

Wanda gives you a look that has you both laughing before she tosses the pair of black heels onto the bed. “What time did you say you’d meet him?”

“Nine,” you answer with a glance to her nightstand alarm. Just another hour.

“I can have Pietro drive you,” she offers.

“Yea, cause that’s a good idea. Showing up to a date with another guy.” You roll your eyes at her as you try on the heels. A perfect fit.

“Might make him a little jealous,” she counters with a smile as she comes to sit down beside you.

“Wanda, I can’t thank you enough for all of this,” you say softly. “I haven’t had much luck in the friend department lately. But you… I needed a friend like you.”

Wanda’s expression shifts, as if in mild shock. “I am more than happy to help. I just hope this guy is worth all the trouble.”

You laugh lightly. “Oh, he is.”

“Then get dressed and I’ll do your makeup when you’re done.” She pats your hand as she gets up to leave. At the doorway she gives you one last lingering glance. As if she knows, as if she can see past every barricade you’ve constructed to keep the truth from her. Soon, you would tell her. You would tell her everything. But for now, the night belongs to you and a stranger named James Barnes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my coworker very innocently asked me today who I liked more: Steve or Bucky. And I’m sitting at my desk holding back laughter cause you all know.... I don’t pick favorites. I write threesome smut. But for this fic, clearly Bucky is the favorite ;)  
> Also, If you haven’t seen the new trailer for "We’ve Always Lived in the Castle" ... please go watch it.


	12. A Second Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Bucky revisit the place where you first met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it folks. The moment of truth. I hope you enjoy how it turned out! There’s more still yet to come :)

As you hop out of the Uber, each movement forces you to get familiar with your own body. Your crop top shows off a slim sliver of your midriff as you lift your ID to the bouncer. The new lingerie does little hide the perked tips of your breasts as you step into the cool AC. Even the skirt sits higher than you aimed for, showing off the long length of your legs. As you walk, it only shifts higher. You feel exposed, vulnerable. But you bask in the attention of the club goers, whose eyes follow your every movement with hungry intentions.  _Let them stare_ . You are here for only one man. And hopefully, if you both played your cards right, he would get to see a lot more than just a skimpy outfit. 

Inside the club, the night scene is already buzzing with life; a hive thriving with energy. The dance floor is packed and there is a line up at the bar. Drunk patrons push their way toward the bartender, shouting orders. Alone, it is an intimidating sight. You’ve never done this before: braved a nightclub on your own, much less dressed with the aim of seduction. But you gather up the remaining dregs of your courage and strut toward the bar. You gently maneuver your way into a small opening and lean against the wooden counter.

“Vodka on the rocks,” you order once you’ve caught the bartender’s attention. But he barely seems to be listening with a cluster of other guests blaring orders. Defeated, you arch your back and settle in against the wooden ledge. You scan the room, searching for any familiar faces. But they are all strangers cast in the glow of the neon lights dancing overhead. The music echoes within your chest, an anxious rhythm. You turn back to the bar and check the time. 9:15. He is late, but so are you. You pull up the last text he sent the night before, reading it over and over again.

“When you see me, I won’t be your brother. I’ll be just a man in a club, wanting to dance with a beautiful woman.”

Behind you, the bartender slides your drink across the bar. But before you can turn to claim it, someone snatches it out of your reach. 

“Hey!” You turn to face the thief, meeting a pair of innocent blue eyes staring back down at you as he takes a slow sip of the drink. Your breath catches. Your heart stops. You can see his face more clearly now, no longer obscured by the mesh of his untamed hair. His newly shortened cut is slick back and leaves his bright eyes fully vulnerable to the gaze of the world. He is like a stranger, a new man. But there is a pulse of the beast still within him. An aura of the wild. That while he may look changed, he is still an animal beneath the cool burn of his cologne. Like a domesticated tiger. Trained, but by no means safe from the wandering impulse of instinct. 

You take a step toward him and without thinking, reach up to timidly touch your fingertips to his now smooth jawline. He smirks down at you, looking all too pleased with himself. You manage to stop before making contact, dropping your hand. A growing blush sweeps over your cheeks. For a moment, you question everything.  _I can’t do this._

“Oh, was this yours?” He asks with a devilish smirk as he takes another sip. “I’m sorry. Would you like it back?” He offers it out to you, but you refuse to take it. Your hands twitch at your side. You fold them against the bar. When Bucky begins to shift closer, as if testing the construction of your little charade, you manage to speak. 

“Why don’t you make it up to me by ordering me another one?” You suggest. 

He looks at you a bit surprised but eventually smiles, happy to continue your game. 

“Gladly.” Bucky sets the drink down and signals the bartender. With his back to you, you snatch the drink and steal another sip. Bucky catches you with an amused smirk. “Greedy girl.”

“Only with things I want,” you say coyly before licking your lips slowly. You keep your gaze held tight to his, but his eyes wonder down to your mouth. His lip twitches slightly under the pressure of temptation. But then his expression shifts, as if he realizes what it is two are doing here. Pretending. He clears his throat to speak but you interpret him. 

“You look awfully familiar,” you say with a mischievous smile, nursing the vodka through its small plastic straw. “Have we met before?”

Bucky laughs and looks at you through the corner of his eye. The former tension held across his chest slides away like discarded rain water. “I don’t think we have,” he answers. “I think I’d remember someone like you.” He extends his hand to you in way of greeting. “James Barnes,” he says.

You take his hand, doing the same. An unusual introduction for two would-be lovers. “James Barnes,” you repeat. “Sounds so formal.”

_James_. You smile to yourself, never having used his first name before now.It feels almost forbidden given the setting. But you savor the opportunity and say it once more in a low whisper, testing out the single syllable.He catches you with a momentary look of amazement, wonder. 

“My friends call me Bucky,” he replies. “Perhaps by the end of this evening, you’ll know me well enough to qualify.”

“Challenge accepted,” you answer with a pleased grin. 

The music blares around you as the night beckons dancers further into disillusion. The crowd thickens on the dance floor in obedience. The subsequent bass vibrates the contents of your drink. You wince, unaccustomed to nightlife and its deafening noise. Bucky says something but you cannot be sure what over the din. You can only see his mouth vaguely moving as if to form words. 

“What?” You shout but even your own voice gets lost in the music. 

He shakes his head with an inaudible laugh. His arm comes around you as he leans in to whisper in your ear, “Let’s move somewhere private.”

You swallow and nod, letting him take the lead. You take your respective drinks and push your way through the club, past provocative dancers and couples in the midst of mutual discovery. Bucky guides you with his hand held firmly to the small of your back. His fingertips trace gentle strokes up and down, finding the bare patch of skin left exposed from beneath the crop top. You sigh when metal meets flesh and lean into his touch, eager to feel more of him. But there needed to be a balance, a give and take of want and submission. Neither of you could give into your desire so easily, not without a fight. 

Finally, you find a more secluded area to hide away from the rest of the drunken crowd. The music is now only a dull reminder in the background, legions away. Before you, there is a corner of cushioned seats occupied by only a select few other patrons. They all keep to themselves, allowing you and Bucky a faux sense of privacy. You settle into the couch beside him, with a sigh of relief. 

“This is much better,” you say. “I can actually hear myself think.”

Bucky laughs lightly before taking a sip of his drink. He watches you carefully for a moment over the rim of the glass, without saying a word. As if he is adjusting to seeing you. As if you aren’t quite real yet.

“Did you come here with someone?” He asks slowly, carefully. As if he is unsure how to proceed with the act, now that you are both alone. 

“I came here on my own,” you answer. “Just looking to have a good time,” you lie.

“A good time,” he repeats with a smirk. “I’m not sure I’d call drunken strangers a good time.”

“So then what brought you here tonight, Mr. Barnes?”

He quirks an eyebrow in mild amusement. “You mean besides the obvious?”

“What’s the obvious?” You smirk. You shift closer to him, but only slightly; the move barely noticeable. 

“Drinking. Dancing,” he answers. “Not remembering much tomorrow.”

“Is there ever any other reason to come to a nightclub?”

He leans closer, allowing his breath to cascade down your neck. He presses his body against yours and maneuvers his arm to wrap around the back of the chair. His fingertips tease your exposed shoulder with small, subtle caresses. And when his gaze catches yours, his eyes dazzle under the swirling lights, holding a world of awaited mischief. 

“I can think of a few.” His arm falls around you. He pulls you tight to his side, savoring the feel of your skin beneath the cold press of his hand. 

“So then why are you here, James?” You try to say it with coy confidence, but the words tremble across your tongue. His touch weakens your resolve. 

“I came here looking for a woman I met once before. In this same club,” he explains. His fingers twirl around the end of your hair, mindlessly. 

“A lost love,” you try, muffling your nerves with another sip of vodka. 

“The one that got away,” he agrees in a low whisper. “We danced, we flirted, but at the end of the night, I let her leave. I’ve regretted it ever since that day.”

Your heart begins to race, recalling that night with crystal clarity. How he smiled down at you, how he held you as if you were made of porcelain, too fragile. As if you might be crushed under the weight of his interest, as if his soul was too much of a burden for you both to bear. When he sets his glass back down, you take his hand in yours, cradling it. 

“What would you have done if you had stayed with her?” You dare to ask. 

He opens your palm in his hand, tracing his fingers around the mounds of flesh with a reserved tenderness. He lifts his gaze and keeps it steady upon you. You reach for your own drink, needing a distraction from his intensity. 

“I would have made sure she was cumming all night,” he whispers, casually.

You sputter your drink, choking on the libation as you take in his confession. With a pleased smirk, he leans away, putting a considerable distance back between you. 

“But you only just met her,” you whisper. “Is that the kind of man you are?”

“I don’t do one night stands,” he corrects firmly. “I know what I want when I see it. And I take it, as often as I like.”

“And what about her? How do you know what she wants?”

“You can tell a lot about a person by the way they dance.”

Then, he stands abruptly from the chair, sets his drink aside, discarded, and extends his hand to you.

“Why don’t we dance a little?” He suggests with a knowing smile. 

Unable to speak, you take his hand and follow him blindly toward the dance floor. Your heart is racing, as if this truly is not the man you have been living with for the past year. Not the man who has pleasured you, who has claimed you in ways no other man had, or could. Not the man who is your step-brother. You are enraptured by the mask of anonymity. By the potential to start again.

Back in the midst and sway of dancers, Bucky pulls you into his chest. You gladly fall into his warmth with a sigh, fitting into his grasp like a lock and key. His hands settle on your hips as your arms entangle around his neck. The tempo is smooth, a seduction of vibrato. You move your body with his. Each swirl of your bodies is held by the other. But the more you move, the more the small distance between you becomes a cruel torture. A torture amplified by the hungry caress of his hands along every inch of covered flesh. He slides his fingers in gentle circle over the leather skirt, pushing the fabric away enough to find the supple landscape of skin he so desperately craves. He leans in and breathes you in as if he had been suffocating without you near. He reaches a hand up to trace the lace trim of your top, swooping past the curve of your side.

“I love this outfit on you, Doll,” he confesses with the lick of his lips. “You don’t wear things like this hardly enough.”

“Bucky,” you whisper in warning. He seems to take the hint, giving you an amused chuckle as his hand settles back against your hips. With a penetrating gaze, he says, “I’d love to know what you are hiding under that little number.”

Your grip on his neck tightens, fistfuls of his collar held in your grasp. “I don’t know if you deserve it,” you reply.

“I know I don’t,” he says carefully. “But you get to decide if I’ve earned it.”

You study him thoughtfully, breathing in his sinful aroma as if it held the answer. You reach up a hand to, finally, caress his smooth cheek. You sigh, feeling the firmness of his jaw beneath your hand, feeling it tense against your offered touch. “Tonight, it doesn’t matter what you deserve,” you whisper before leaning in to kiss the place your hand has left behind. You move slowly across his skin until delicately placing a final kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Tonight, I am yours, James.”

He is silent for a moment before he leans his forehead against yours and exhales deeply. His lips pull into a full smile, all teeth and happiness. “Bold of you to say for a woman I’ve just met,” he laughs.

You playfully smack his arm and try to push yourself away, but he holds you steady. He returns you both to the dance, to the silent serenity of your bodies in perfect synchronicity. An eternity could pass, and you would happily surrender to the end if it meant dancing with him for just a little longer. But when he leans into you once more to whisper softly into your ear, you know your dance is done. His lips dare to find your weakness upon your neck. “Are you truly mine, doll?” He asks softly, his voice deep with desire. “All of you?”

“All of me,” you repeat in a moan as his fingers flicker over your breast, over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden just under woven lace. “We shouldn’t do this here,” you whisper but it comes out as a plea of desperation as he begins to gentle suck on your neck. 

“Where then?”

Your eyes dart up to the second floor of the nightclub, a balcony left ignored and abandoned. Bucky follows your gaze before releasing a satisfied growl and pulling you from the dance floor. You both practically run, racing toward awaiting pleasure. You stumble up the stairs, laughing and clinging to each other. When finally, you make it to the second level, you are both out of breath. But you find the entrance blocked by a locked chain.

Bucky is not one to be detoured. He grabs a fistful of the chain with his bionic arm and tears it away, as if it were simple ribbon. The wrapping of a present yet to be uncovered. He pulls you up onto the now unblocked landing. It is littered with boxes for storage. An old broken couch sits discarded in the corner, cast in shadows. 

“Not exactly the Ritz Carlton, but it will do,” Bucky jokes as he captures you back into his embrace and leads you both over the metal balcony that overlooks the crowds below. You lean against the railing and stare down at the oblivious dancers. Every one of them lost in their own pleasures: alcohol, dancing, seduction and sex. But above them all, their offered temptations are meaningless. 

“See anything you like down there?” Bucky asks as he presses against your back. His hands come down to rest over yours, trapping you beneath him.

“Everything I want is right here,” you whisper back as you turn around to face him. No longer chained by society, he lunges at you with the full force of his intensity. His lips crash into yours. Heat, desire, need. All twisted and mangled into each caress of his mouth against yours, into the press of his tongue, into the heated moans caught between you. 

“I want you so bad,” he manages to gasp between moments of capturing your own confessions with the entirety of his mouth. “I need… I need…”

“What do you need?” Your own voice is exasperated. 

Forcefully, he turns you back around and bends you over the railing. He kicks your legs apart, a movement that forces your skirt higher. You gasp but do little to stop him. “I need to know what you are hiding from me,” he whispers as his hand finds the back of your thigh. You stifle a moan and a curse. How quickly you both succumb to the animal within. The primal drive long overdo for fulfillment. 

“Is it some cute little lacy thing?” He asks as his hand presses higher. Cool metal upon your heated flesh, grasping onto the meat of your leg. He kisses the back of your neck. You arch into his chest, giving him permission, surrendering to him. “Or are you not wearing any panties at all?” 

“Why don’t you find out?” You say in a pleasured moan. 

His hand slides high enough to brush against your newly purchased lingerie: a set of crotchless panties, trimmed with delicate black lace. But he does not feel much of the lace, not when his fingertips find the wet slit of your sex first. He practically growls in reaction, a base, animalistic response. He pushes his thumb against your clit. You tighten your thighs together, unintentionally locking his hand in place. 

“Such a dirty girl,” he scolds. “What if someone had seen?” You moan loudly as he pushes the tip of his finger just barely inside. “Those people down there. They could see me fingering your tight little pussy if they were to look up.” He captures the scoop of your ear between his teeth. His breath is hot and inviting. “Does that turn you on?”

“Yes… oh god, Bucky…” You reach back to cling to his arm, both urging him to stop but also insisting on more of his provided pleasure. Forever a contradiction of yes and no. The tidal pull of give and take. 

“James,” he corrects before he pulls his hand free. You groan in mild protest before he slides the entirety of two fingers inside all at once, right up to the knuckle. You let out a loud gasp and cling to the railing before he clamps his free hand over your mouth.

“Quiet, babygirl,” he whispers as he pushes his groin into your back. You can feel the press of his own need against your ass. Hard. Impatient. “I need you to be very quiet for me. Or else our fun will have to come to an unfortunate end.”

You nod into his hand and push back against him, silently begging for more. He chuckles softly before kissing your ear and whispering, “That’s a good girl. Fuck my fingers the way you need.” 

You obey without question, grinding back and forth against his hand, taking in the length of his fingers. In and out. He thrusts into you in tandem with each needy push of your hips. As if he were taking you with his own sex, rather than his artificial fingers. He takes his hand away to knead your ass. He slaps you, hard enough to pull a whimper from your lips, before his fingers return to do their bidding. You throb against him, needing release, but wanting more.  

“You are so wet for me,” he purrs in encouragement. He separates his fingers apart inside of you, spreading you wider. But still, you remind silent, only muffled groans escape past clamped lips. “Wet enough to take a lot more. But you are so damn tight. I don’t know if you can handle it.”

“I can handle it,” you gasp as he pulls his hand away. “Please, let me have it. Please, James.”

His movements stall. His fingers slowly, carefully, pull free from your dripping sex. He lifts them to his lips, tasting you with a lustrous moan. You breath erratically. Your legs tremble from the denied release so near within your grasp. He gently turns you around to look at him. His eyes are gentle but brimmed with worry. 

“Do you really want to do this here?” He asks in a whisper. The act effectively broken. His eyes dart around your surroundings. The cluster of boxes, the dirt on the floor. He visibly cringes. 

“I want to do this the right way,” he struggles to say. “I want it to be perfect. And this… this is far from perfect.”

“Ok, the couch then.” You wrap your arms around him once more and silence his worrying with a kiss, one laced with both of your desperation. “If we wait for perfection, it might never happen, Bucky. I can’t wait any longer… please. I need you inside of me.”

He growls against your mouth, your lip caught between his teeth before he scoops you up into his arms. He carries you to the corner where the couch awaits. It is dusty and torn on one side, but you could not care less. You both have waited too long to be with each other. To truly be together. You have walked along that damning line of taboo for as long as you have known each other. A line so blurred it fades between sin and salvation. It is time to break the chains that bind you. It is time to be what Bucky needs. Not just a sister. Not just a friend. But a lover. A forever. 

He sets you down carefully on the couch. With no time for formality, you pull the skirt up around your waist and fumble to help Bucky out of his shirt as he unfastens his jeans. His pants fall just below his thighs, allowing his cock to spring free. You toss his shirt uselessly to the side. Your legs part for him, a heel resting on either side of the couch. The useless panties do little to conceal the extent of your desire, leaving a clear path for his exploration. You reach out for him, pulling him toward both of your reckoning.

With his cock in hand, he hesitates. “Doll, this isn’t… We can go home.” 

You grab hold of his sex. “Condom?” You ask shyly, giving him an answer. Not home. Here. Now. 

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the small foil square. He had been hopeful, you realize. He came expecting the worst but both of you knew this was inevitable. Like the sun setting, or the turn of the tides. As sure as nature.

He rips the packet with his teeth but you are quick to take the protection from him, smoothing it down over the length of his erect cock. He groans and leans into your touch. Once it is on fully, he wraps your hand around the base and together you guide him forward. You hold his gaze and you kiss him sweetly before you feel the tip of his cock press softly into your swollen clit. You moan and whisper against his lips, “I love you, Bucky.” No longer James. No longer a stranger at the bar. Just Bucky. The man you love. The man you want to make love to tonight and for many more nights to come. 

He whispers your name in answer as he falls over you. His metal hand grips tight to the backing of the couch for stability. “I love you too,” he replies finally. As if an exhale. More a process of being than they are words. “I love you,” he repeats until his cock slides into you fully. You throw your head back to relish in the finality of it. There would be no going back after this. No opportunity for ignorance. No longer innocent siblings but lovers. He stops as if he too is taking in the gravity of your actions. But it is not for long. His hips swirl into yours, grinding closer and closer with each movement. The motion is calculated, tentative, allowing you time to adjust the sensation of his sex inside of your tight warmth. The way you wrap so snugly around him. 

You cling to his back but when he begins to move with more vigor, your nails dig into his exposed flesh. His muscles tense beneath your grasp. They pulse and ripple with each thrust. 

“Oh god...You feel better than I ever dreamed,” he moans. He leans back to look at you beneath him: your legs wide and welcoming, your cunt filled with him, your mouth parted with pleasure. “So much fucking better.”

He captures your mouth in a heated kiss. You moan and gasp into his mouth. He moves faster, pumping into you with a renewed rhythm. Your juices slosh around him. Sweat beads down his chest. You gather the sheen of it against your palms as your hands slide up over his pecks and land around his neck. 

“Yes, just like that,” you moan in encouragement. You arch your hips to meet him. “Just like that, Bucky!”

“We waited too damn long,” he growls. “To think I could have been fucking you every night like this...”

“We will have to make up for lost time,” you manage to say before all words fade into guttural responses.  

“I’m going to,” Bucky replies as he leans down and kisses your neck sweetly. He clings to you as if you were both falling into oblivion. “I’m going to make it up to you for as long as I can have you.” 

You moan loudly as the beginnings of release tremble through you. “Bucky, I’m going to...”

“Cum for me,” he commands. He cups your cheek, holding your gaze. “I want to feel you cumming against my cock.”

His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit with the round tips of his fingers. He moves in circles, pressing into you. You bite back another moan as your pleasure builds, boiling into a deep burn that consumes all remaining reason. You want this. You want him. 

“Cum with me,” you barely manage before you are shouting your own release with the thrust of your hips towards heaven. He answers with his own inward, meeting you. You can feel the throbbing of his sex matching the contractions of your own. He muffles a groan into your shoulder, biting down as he empties himself into the condom, as you pulse around him. But there are words spoken in the throws of passion that the two of you can do little to deny. Whimpered confessions as you both came together. Words that mark what you are to each other. What your relationship means. And the sin you both happily carry. 

He calls you little sister as he thrusts one last time. You call him big brother while he brings you to completion. It is wrong, you both know it. But it feels so deliciously right. 

You lie still for a moment, your arms wrapped tight around each other. You listen to your mutual breathing as you both come down from the high of release. You stroke his back and kiss his cheek while he tends to the bite he has left upon your shoulder. Finally, he shifts away and pulls free from your sex. It’s an odd feeling: the emptiness. Having felt so full and complete to now, feeling the absence of him. You press your thighs together and shimmy your skirt back in place. He pulls the condom free and discards it unceremoniously into the pile of rubble and junk. As he pulls his pants back in place, he gazes down at you with expression mixed with self loathing and longing. 

“Are you... are you alright?” He asks. It’s a mixed question. A question with multiple intentions. _Did I hurt you? Was this too much? Did we make a mistake?_

In answer, you reach up to him and pull him down onto the couch. Once he is settled into the broken cushion, you crawl into his lap. He cradles you in his arms. 

“I’m more than alright,” you whisper into the crook of his neck. “Are you?”

He clings to your arms, kissing your cheek with a small, subtle smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happier.”

He pulls away enough to look at you directly. “I meant what I said,” he begins. “I’m done running away. Being with you...That’s all that matters now.” He brings your hand to his lips and tenderly kissing your knuckles. “I love you.”

“What are you doing up here?”

You both jolt at the sound. A manager stands at the top of the stairs, his face hot with anger. 

“Get the fuck out of here!” He screams.

And while the two of you should feel some sort of shame for what you’ve done, you both can only laugh hysterically as you race for the stairs. Bucky grabs his shirt, squeezing past the manager with a salute before you pull him down after you. When you make it back down to the heart of the club, Bucky buttoning his shirt askew, you feel the rush of adrenaline hit you. You grab hold of his shirt and pull him down, kissing him deeply in full view of the club. He smiles against your lips. 

“We should probably get out of here before he finds the condom,” he laughs. He takes your hand in his and leads you out of the club, past gawking eyes, past strangers who do not matter. You thread your fingers through his, ready and eager to embrace the night. 


End file.
